


Finding the Stars

by Woodentrain



Series: Finding the Stars [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Movie Timeline, Oliver is pining so hard, Oliver's POV, Oliver's backstory, Pining, Pre-Canon, Up to the end of the movie, at least nothing that contradicts canon, crying sex, if you want that, mostly the movie but a bit from the book, partly book canon, partly movie canon, there's a happy epilogue available, vulnerable oliver, you know how this ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodentrain/pseuds/Woodentrain
Summary: Oliver's side of the story-Oliver's a normal kid, from a normal family.  He's not like the rest of them, though- nobody expected him to want to sit with his nose in a book all day.  Nobody expected him to want to go to college.  Nobody expected him to go to stay with a professor in Italy to edit a book he's actually written himself.And when he gets to Italy there’s this kid, the professor’s son.  He’s intimidating as hell.  But when he smiles, really smiles, Oliver’s heart turns over...





	1. Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been playing around with this for a couple of weeks now, and really wanted to get at least the first bit done before Christmas. So I stopped trying to edit the life out of it and here's what's left. The rest is written, pretty much, but it's a hot mess right now. There should be more ready in a couple more weeks!

Oliver’s a normal kid, from a normal family.  They're not poor, but they're definitely not rich either.  There’s him and his little brother and sister.  He’s normal, but he’s super intelligent, which is unexpected to say the least.  His parents sometimes wonder where they got him from, because he’s not like either of them.  They don’t quite understand him- Oliver likes to read, all the time, which seems strange to them because there aren't really any books in the house, and all his father ever reads is the newspaper.  Books are expensive, after all.  But Oliver holes himself up in the local library and devours books like they’re candy.  His brother, two years younger, spends his time playing sports and hanging out with friends in the neighbourhood. Oliver's parents encourage him to do the same, because _that's what normal people do_ , and _why does Oliver always want to stay indoors and read?_   It's because he's shy and quiet and happiest in the company of books, actually, but his parents don't understand that. Oliver learns from an early age to downplay his intelligence because it makes people uncomfortable and wary and, as his parents say, nobody likes a know-it-all. 

When he’s getting ready to go to high school, his middle school teacher tells his parents he should apply for a scholarship to the local prep school.  Going to this school is not something that had ever crossed their minds.  It’s where the rich kids go.  But Oliver sits the exams, and he wins a full scholarship, and he _flourishes_ there.  For the first time in his academic life he’s being challenged and he loves it.

The kids at his school are clever- they have to be, because they passed an exam to be there.  Although Oliver's more into his studies than most of the other kids, the majority of them are keen to learn and happy to work hard.  So, to an extent, Oliver fits in here.  But at the same time, most of the kids are rich.  Oliver is suddenly aware that he doesn’t live in a huge house, and they definitely don't have a pool, and he doesn't spend his vacations skiing or at his family's summer house.  But it’s okay.  He gets by pretty well, in fact- probably because he’s good looking and decent enough at sports.  He learns to make himself comfortable even when he’s not.  He learns to put on a charming smile and act confident even though he's shy.  He learns to be around intelligent, wealthy people, but deep down he’s still that boy who never quite fits in.

His school fees and uniform and books are covered by his scholarship but there are other expenses.  The right clothes, the nights out with friends, the dates he takes girls on.  He wants to get a job but his parents won’t let him.  They’re so proud of him, they say, he works so hard already, he should focus on his studies, and if he needs money they can give it to him.  But he won’t take it.  He doesn't need to, in the end, because he learns to play poker with some guys from school-  and he’s good at it.  Really good at it, in fact- because he’s so used to putting on an act.  That takes some of the pressure off when it comes to money.  The other boys from school have plenty of cash to splash around, and Oliver always wins.

* * *

 

His parents are so proud when he gets offered a place at Harvard.  Neither of them even thought about going to college, let alone somewhere like that.  His mom barely graduated from high school.  They can’t really grasp the full meaning of it.  Oliver’s dad wants to help pay for college, but Oliver won’t take the money.  Harvard is expensive and sending a kid to college is not something his parents budgeted for. They can’t really spare the money with his two younger siblings still at home. It had never occurred to them that they might have a child who would want to go to college, who would be able to.  They had assumed that despite his bookish ways Oliver, like most sons, would get a job, marry a nice girl and move into a house nearby.  That he'd bring the grandchildren around every weekend. 

So Oliver goes to Harvard and gets scholarships, jobs… he’s not afraid of hard work and he loves his studies and again, if he doesn’t quite feel he fits in sometimes then he can live with that.  Just like in high school, he gets along pretty well.  He’s knows he's attractive- he doesn’t look like the shy bookworm he really is, and that helps a lot.  His years at prep school have taught him how to dress, how to speak, how to behave.  The charming smile he's learned so well turns out to be an invaluable tool.  People like him.

Oliver adores college.  He breezes through his studies, because he’s used to studying hard and he loves what he’s doing.  He works as a bartender at weekends to support himself.  He learns a lot about history and literature and philosophy and even more about himself.  He dates girls and then, to his surprise, boys.  The first time he sleeps with a man he's pretty freaked out about what he's done, but after his initial shock he takes this new, secret development in his stride.  It’s no big deal to him, because attraction is attraction and he doesn't feel the need to worry about _who_ he's attracted to.  But he knows other people wouldn’t be so understanding.  His parents would no doubt be horrified.  His mom might come round to the idea, but he knows his dad's feelings on this matter.  Fortunately it never becomes an issue, because his affairs with men are short-lived and he can truthfully tell his parents about the girls he also dates.  They still make no secret of the fact that they want him to find a nice girl and settle down, because isn't that what all parents want?  Oliver has a couple of sort-of-serious relationships, but things always fizzle out when it becomes clear that Oliver is more interested in his studies than in settling down. 

He graduates, and all his family come to his graduation.  They're a little intimidated by the whole situation, but they’re so proud of him, again.  His mom cries all through the ceremony.  But they don’t understand, at all, why Oliver’s decided to study even more.  What will he do with a doctorate?  Does he need it?  What's the point?  Isn’t it time for him to get a job?  To get married?  Isn’t he bored of all those musty old books?  _No, never_ , thinks Oliver.  He’s happy.  He’s never been happier.  He'll go to New York and study and teach and read and, as long as he's happy and doesn't need them to support him, his parents will leave him to get on with it.

Oliver starts his graduate studies at Columbia.  New York suits Oliver well.  He's cultivated a relaxed confidence which means making friends is easy, and he still loves his studies, so that's good.  The more he studies the more he meets people like himself- who love books and words and history.  The bustle of such a vibrant city takes a little getting used to, but he soon learns to love the fact that he can go to concerts, theatres, operas, ballets. He's deeply content with his life.

His first really serious, meet-the-parents relationship starts shortly after he moves to New York.  Emma's a friend of a friend and it doesn’t start as anything serious but before he knows it it’s been six months and they’re very much _together_.  And so it continues- they love each other and they’re together, except for when they’re not, which is a lot of the time, actually, when he thinks about it.  Their relationship is passionate and volatile, with terrible rows which mostly end with intense make up sex but sometimes in breaking up for days, weeks, months at a time.  In between times they date other people- at least, Oliver does.  He doesn’t know about her, because they don't talk about it.

Emma's at law school.  She's a good fit for Oliver.  Her parents like him, which is no surprise because he's handsome and intelligent and hard-working.  He knows he's a good catch, and that her parents are hoping they'll get married.  His own parents like her, too, although they’re a bit intimidated.  _She’s so clever_ , says his mother, _especially for a girl.  When are you going to marry her, so she can stop all that studying and have a baby?_   His family don't understand why a girl would need so much education.  They find her desire to study even stranger than Oliver's. 

Oliver thinks he loves her almost as much as his books. 

* * *

 During his second year at Columbia his advisor suggests he apply for a summer placement with Professor Perlman.  It’s a great opportunity.  Every summer the professor offers a research assistant position to a student who wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford to do something like that.  Oliver fits the criteria well, funding his studies as he does through his part-time job at a catering company and his poker winnings.  It would be an opportunity to finish editing the book he's almost finished, and having someone like Perlman look it over would be fantastic.  Perlman’s work is exactly the area Oliver’s interested in, so he applies, but is sort of shocked when he’s successful.  He spends the semester frantically learning Italian in between his other commitments- his studies and his part-time job.  He and Emma break up, for the fourth time, around Easter.  This time she's devastated, but she wants a commitment he's just not ready for.  He actually thinks it might be over for good this time, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.  At least it’s amicable now, unlike the blazing rows of the past.  He feels that they might actually be able to be friends.

As summer draws ever closer, he continues to prepare for his time in Italy.  He sleeps with his Italian instructor, once, after they share a bottle of wine during his lesson. It's mutually convenient, and Oliver learns a few choice words and phrases in Italian that his normal conversation lessons didn't cover. They'll probably come in useful, because he's not planning on being celibate for six weeks, and he has enough experience to know that he won't want for attention.

This trip is coming at a good time for Oliver.  It'll do him good to get away from his real life for a while.  It's probably going to be his last chance, because everyone expects him to settle down. He's twenty-four, after all.  A lot of his friends from college are already married, and people are starting to ask questions.  _When are you going to settle down, Oliver?  When are you going to marry that nice girl?_ Especially since he's been, sort of, with Emma for so long.  It's been off and on for almost two years now.  She made it clear that she's looking for marriage, that she's ready to have children- that's why they're broken up right now.  He can't pretend it's not something he's thought of himself.  He is, _almost_ , ready to settle down.  He thinks so, anyway.  He wants those things, of course he does- a wife and children and a house.  He and Emma have stayed in touch- they go out for coffee every week or two.  He feels like she's keeping him close as though to say _I'm still here.  You know what I want.  I'll be here when you're ready._ But he knows she won't wait forever for him to come back and commit to her.

But. _But_. There's something holding him back.

It's not his attraction to men, although that is something he still needs to fully come to terms with.  He's not sure what it means for him, and it's not something he can talk to anyone about.  He knows his family's opinions on such things.  He knows that many of his friends don't care- hell, he's slept with a few of them.  But he knows that the circles he moves in are pretty liberal, and he knows the sort of names other people would call him if they knew.  Emma's the person he's closest too, and she's open minded, but she's a nice girl, and she'd almost certainly find the things he's with done with other men repulsive.  She can never find out about it.  It's something he's going to have to figure out alone.

He feels like, at 24, he should already have this stuff worked out by now.

Six weeks away from his real life, his friends, the bustle of New York, will give him time to think things over. And when he comes back, hopefully he'll know.  Hopefully he'll have sorted out all of these complicated thoughts that he just can't get out of his head.

* * *

 In May, he gives his notice at work.  They’re pretty annoyed, because Oliver is a pretty decent chef, and he’s leaving right in the middle of wedding season, which is the busiest time of year in the catering business. 

The university send him to Sicily for a week at the start of the summer break, a research trip with two other students.  It's great, but he has to go back to New York afterwards and work all hours to get his Sicily work written up.  He only has a week before flying out to Italy again, by which time he's already exhausted and sort of wishing he'd just decided to spend a quiet summer working at home.

But he's not.  He's going to stay with the professor and his family and he knows he'll love it once he gets there.  He's spoken to the professor and been told a little about what to expect.  The weather will likely be hot, or at the very least warm, and hopefully it won't rain too often.  The evenings can be cool, but not always.  He’ll be working with the professor for an hour or so each day, perhaps for a whole morning or afternoon on occasions.  He should bring a swimsuit because there’s a pool at the house, as well as a river nearby where people swim.  He’ll be able to socialise with the local families, with other young people in the town.  The professor’s sure he’ll be fine and they're all looking forward to meeting him.

Oliver packs his books and his papers, shirts and shorts, swimsuits, his passport.  He boards a flight just after 9 at night, already tired, and arrives in Milan, exhausted, at 2 the following afternoon.  An indirect flight was cheaper but it’s taken him over eleven hours, with two hours in Heathrow in what felt like the early hours of the morning to his poor, jet-lagged brain.  It was an uncharacteristically bright, sunny morning in London, which only confused him even more.  By the time he reaches Milan he can barely tell if it’s supposed to be day or night any more.  He claims his luggage and leaves the airport at three in the afternoon- but back in New York it would be just after breakfast and he hasn’t slept all night.  His body and brain are fuzzy with exhaustion and he's not sure he's even human any more.

It's another hour before he arrives at the Perlmans' house.  Oliver had thought he'd long since got over being intimidated by other people's big houses, but today he's dead on his feet and he can't help the slight feeling of inadequacy that washes over him at the sight of this beautiful villa set in its enormous grounds.  So he puts on his most confident smile and greets the people who are going to be his hosts for the next six weeks.  Professor Perlman and his wife take him into the house, into a study full of books- and Oliver's never seen half so many books outside of a library.  He could probably live out the rest of his life in this one room, quite happily, and never be bored.  But he doesn't have much time to think about it, because he's falling asleep.  He's shown to his room where he falls onto his bed and sleeps until the next morning.

When he wakes in the morning, Oliver feels pretty good.  He's slept off the worst of the jet lag, and the sun is shining, and he's starving.  He goes downstairs to breakfast and meets his hosts properly.  They're sitting outdoors, under a tree, being served breakfast.  There's fresh bread, and fruit from the orchard, yoghurt, eggs, juice, three types of jam... and to top it all off, this spread is served to them by a housekeeper. 

At home, Oliver normally makes a quick cup of coffee and grabs a slice or two of toast.  This is not what he's accustomed to.  But he hasn't come all this way to be intimidated by a breakfast. 

So he does what he knows he does well- puts on a charming smile and draws from the well of apparently effortless confidence he's nurtured through the years.

Oliver makes small talk with the professor and his wife, and at the same time, thinks about this place, these people. 

They wear their wealth so comfortably, with their big house and their pool and all their books- and their _staff_ , for heaven’s sake.  These people have staff, to cook for them and do their laundry and drive them places and tend their garden.  They come here for the summer and have long, lazy lunches and probably do… not very much at all.  This doesn't seem like a place where people _do_ very much.  They exude an aura of being wealthy enough never to have to think about it. 

Because money is not something they think about, nobody's going to stop and think about the fact that some people don't have that, that Oliver does not have that, that he's different to them.  What the Perlmans do seem to think about is literature and music and philosophy- they value these, as does Oliver.  So Oliver feels, strangely, like he'll fit right in here, with these educated, bookish people- perhaps better than he's fitted in anywhere ever before.

And there’s this kid, the professor’s son.  Despite all Oliver's expensive education, all the people he’s met, Oliver has never met anyone like Elio.  He’s scrawny and prickly and he gives Oliver the darkest looks, as though he's pretty pissed off with him just for daring to exist.  Is he really that annoyed that Oliver's been given his bedroom for the summer?  Surely not. Oliver would be happy to switch, if that's what Elio wants.  He doesn't need the bigger room.

Over the coming days and weeks Oliver will discover lots of things about Elio- that he _knows_ things.  That he’s some sort of genius.  He’s read things at seventeen that Oliver has never heard of at twenty-four.  He’s fluent in three languages and flits between them without thinking, often with all three in the space of one sentence.  He plays piano and guitar and spends a lot of time transcribing music.  Oliver's not sure why, what the _point_ is, but he daren't ask.  Perhaps it's just because he can. 

Oliver likes music, even though it wasn't a priority in Oliver's family.  The fact that he never learned an instrument makes him all the more impressed by Elio- he has these gorgeous, long fingers, and when he plays the piano Oliver is just _stunned_.  When Elio catches him staring, he shoots Oliver one of his most menacing glares.  Oliver looks away, feigns disinterest.

Oliver knows what it's like to be clever, but he also knows it's been hard for him to get to where he is.  He's lived in a family where being intelligent and wanting to know things was something strange, something that made people nervous, and he's had to overcome those attitudes.  Whereas Elio wears his intelligence so casually, like he’s never even stopped to think about it.  He's not embarrassed to show that he's knowledgeable, doesn't feel as though he needs to downplay it in order to fit in.  Although it’s not deliberate he makes Oliver feel sort of stupid, sometimes. 

He’s intimidating as hell.

But when he smiles, really smiles, Oliver’s heart turns over.  It’s rare, because Elio’s usually so guarded, borderline sullen sometimes, but God.  That smile.  It cracks his whole face open, splits open the sky, turns the stars to dust.

On that first morning, however, Oliver has yet to learn all of this.  Because Elio doesn't smile that smile, not yet.  What he does do is offer to show Oliver around. 

_That'd be great._

And so it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... interesting story... whilst reading the book this line stuck out at me- "I pay my own way. I've paid my way since prep school. My father couldn't possibly disapprove". Seems a little odd... why does Oliver pay his own way and his father not? Maybe he's not from a wealthy, academic type family. And then I had this little headcanon that went something like "Huh... so what if Oliver was from a 'normal' family and was super intimidated by the Perlmans and their big house and stuff?" (There was more to it than that, but that's it in a nutshell). And I was going to post a couple of hundred words about it on my tumblr. By the time it got to be about 2000 words long it became clear that it was going to be something more than a little tumblr post.
> 
> And then I told myself okay, I'll just go with this... but I definitely don't want to write the whole CMBYN story from Oliver's POV. That would be sacrilegious, because Oliver is supposed to be a mystery. But then the Oliver-character-in-my-head kept saying 'no, actually, the whole thing from my point of view is EXACTLY what we're going to do'. And here we are.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	2. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver realises, on the first day, that he's attracted to Elio. Not in the way he would usually think of attraction, but there's something about him. Oliver doesn't believe in love at first sight, but he believes in the possibility of something instantaneous. Some sort of spark, or connection. He's felt it before, though not as intensely as he feels it with Elio. He can’t quite put his finger on it.

By the end of his first week in Italy, Oliver has settled into a comfortable routine.  There’s plenty of sunshine, good food, drink, and conversation.  He has things he has to do pretty much every day, like collecting and delivering his work to his translator in town, and working on filing or correspondence with the professor.  But most of his time is his own, so he spends most mornings working on his manuscript.  Sort of, anyway.  He can't pretend he's getting a lot of work done.  Luckily the manuscript was in pretty decent shape to start with, because he's actually spending most of his time lying in the sun, on the grass, or by the pool.  He notices his hair getting lighter and his skin getting darker day by day.  Oliver's never had a summer with so much time to relax, to do nothing, and he loves the long days and the burning sun and the warm, lingering twilight.  The chirp of the cicadas is new to him at first but soon becomes little more than white noise, present in the background as each afternoon fades slowly into darkness.  He could stay here, in this place, this summer, forever.  It’s so alien and yet it feels like coming home, like he’s been here always, trapped in the cycle of repetitive days with their seemingly endless sunshine.

During that first week, Oliver worries that living with a family he doesn't know- for six whole weeks- might get a little suffocating.  He's used to living in his own space, keeping his own hours, enjoying his solitude.  When he's at home in New York he can eat his meals alone in his apartment whilst reading a book, and with no-one expecting him to make conversation.  Not that he's complaining about the company here- quite the opposite, in fact- having such enlightened conversations over meals each day is a delight to Oliver, who's always been surprised as well as happy when he finds people who like to talk about the same things that interest him.  But he worries that the Perlmans might get bored of his company, or just want a break to have some time as a family without him constantly underfoot.  They are housing and feeding him for nothing, and he doesn't want to take advantage of their generosity.  He’s already imposing enough, and he hopes he won't make them feel as though they need to entertain him too.  

So Oliver makes sure he's not going to be completely reliant on them for company.  Although they never make him feel like anything other than a member of the family, they do encourage him to make friends and dine with other local families, simply because, the professor says, it's a valuable experience for him.  He should take advantage of the opportunity to meet people who might be useful contacts for him in the future, as well as being people he will probably enjoy spending time with.  It’s true, because Oliver is introduced to intelligent people and, like at the Perlmans' own dinners, enjoys sophisticated conversations about things he’s interested in.  Meeting so many different people also gives Oliver a much-needed opportunity to practice his Italian.  His speaking still lags far behind his understanding, and while he can read it competently and follow a conversation with relative ease, he struggles to express himself beyond a basic level.

Although Oliver loves meeting fellow academics, he does find it draining at times.  He feels as though he always has to be on his best behaviour, like there’s pressure to always be Oliver the Intellectual.  He knows that a lot of that pressure isn’t really there, that he sees it largely because of his own insecurities about not having been born and raised in this sort of life.  But he feels the pressure nonetheless, and misses the more relaxed interactions he has with friends back home.  Luckily, he happens upon a poker game in a bar one afternoon when he’s taking some time alone to explore the town.  His rudimentary Italian is perfectly adequate for making himself understood in the context of the game, and meeting the local men to play, and have a drink or two, becomes a regular part of his afternoon or evening routine.  This more laid-back atmosphere also serves to help him improve his spoken Italian far more quickly than all of the more refined dinners he attends.

Even when he stays at the house, there are new people to meet all the time.  There seems to be a near-constant stream of visitors to the Perlmans' home.  Friends and relatives, of course, but other visitors, too- almost anyone seems to be welcome, any time.  And since the Perlmans themselves seem to barely know some of their guests, Oliver gives up on trying to keep track of who's who. 

In the afternoons it's not unusual for a crowd of young people from the town and nearby villages, friends and acquaintances of Elio, to come around to sit in the sunshine of the garden.  There’s a volleyball net set up, and there’s always food and drink available.  Oliver is something of a novelty among these young people- they're accustomed to the Perlmans' summer guests, but it seems that Oliver is unusual in wanting to join them rather than sit cooped up in his room working or studying. He finds himself instantly assimilated into their group, invited to join them when they go swimming or play games or go out at night.  

Oliver’s not sure if he should really call them Elio’s friends, because although he’s obviously popular and well-liked, quite often Elio himself doesn’t seem to want to join them.  He almost seems to avoid them at times, actually, perhaps because there are some things they just don’t have in common.  Oliver’s fairly sure that Elio doesn’t talk to his friends about reading and books and all the things he obviously knows.  Elio’s a loner, in a lot of ways.  He’s introverted either by nature or through habit, and he needs quiet and time alone to recharge.  His parents sometimes berate him for not making more effort to socialise.  But he doesn’t seem to _want_ to spend a lot of time with people.  He enjoys his own company, and that of his books and music.  Oliver can sympathise with this, recognises those feelings in himself, though he’s got better at it hiding them over time.  He remembers what it was like when he was at school, when it felt like he didn’t know anyone else, really, who was the same as him.  Oliver honestly doesn’t know whether it’s best to do what he’s always done- find a way to fit in- or whether Elio has it right in accepting that it’s okay to be happy spending time alone.

* * *

 

Oliver sees things about Elio. He appears confident about his place in his own world, but underneath that, beneath all his words, he's shy and insecure, unsure of where he fits in.  At dinner he talks too fast, desperate to get the words out before his opinions are dismissed as those of a child.  And he doesn't quite know whether to be grown up or retreat into the refuge of childhood.  He isn't quite able to reconcile the cause and effect of behaving like a child and being treated like one- he sees his parents' responses to his sometimes sulky behaviour as an example of them babying him, treating him like the child he no longer is, when in fact any nagging is almost always the result of Elio's petulance and not the cause of it.

Sometimes Elio skulks around the house, oozing hormones, forcing everyone to suffer under his dark cloud of teenage angst.  On those days Elio seems bored, or at least unfocused.  Unable to settle to do anything, he leaves a trail of discarded books and cassettes and half-smoked cigarettes in his wake.  Oliver can sympathise, because it wasn't long ago that he was seventeen.  Elio's parents know enough to leave him well alone when he's in one of these moods, or risk being snapped at in three different languages.  But then a little later Elio will appear outside and settle contentedly in his favourite spot at the table by the pool.  Or he might stay indoors, and Oliver will catch a glimpse of him through a half-open door, curled in a chair with a book in his hand, or listening to music, apparently lost in a daydream, all softness and tranquillity. 

Oliver has quickly realised that any preconceptions he might have had about Elio are wrong. At school, Oliver met many boys who were the only children of wealthy people.  Spoiled and indulged for the most part, instilled with a sense of entitlement, they were never among Oliver’s close friends.  And yes- in some ways Elio is, and behaves like, an indulged only child.  But in other ways, he's almost starved of attention.  Oliver doesn’t doubt for a moment that the Perlmans are doting, loving parents.  But it’s a very different love to that shown by his own parents.  If his mother were here, she’d probably say that Elio has been neglected, left to him own devices as he is, while his parents entertain their friends and talk about things which are far more interesting than dealing with children. 

It’s not true, of course.  Elio’s upbringing may be unconventional, but the Perlmans are far from neglectful.  Their attitude has served to make Elio more self-reliant than most people his age, content to amuse himself with books and music.  It’s something else he and Oliver have in common.  Oliver is used to the company of books because other people didn't understand him, didn't know about the things he's interested in and wants to talk about.  Elio is used to this same, peculiar loneliness because of the way his parents have left him to amuse himself.   In the past he was, no doubt, bored by the company of the adults around him and their intellectual conversations.  Elio spoke to Oliver, just once, about the summers of his childhood when he was left to roam the house and gardens while his parents enjoyed their long lunches and the company of their visitors.  Now, though, he's frustrated by the failure of the adults around him to see him as an equal.  If he set his mind to it, if anyone paid him much heed, he could probably out-talk all of them.  But he doesn't.  He retreats into his music, his books, his own head.  He keeps quiet.  Oliver sees how Elio sometimes feels ignored, how he feels as though what he thinks doesn’t matter to his parents and their intellectual, vocal guests. 

Oliver cares what Elio thinks.  He cares a lot, actually, because he’s quietly fascinated by Elio, and becoming more so every day.

He likes Elio.  Or at least he would if he could- but Elio makes things very difficult for him because generally he doesn't seem to want Oliver to like him.  On the first morning, Elio showed him around the area.  They biked into town and chatted and sat outdoors at a café while Oliver filled out his forms for the bank.  It was nice.  Elio was friendly, and Oliver thought they were going to get on.  A week later, he's not so sure.  After the first amiable morning things seemed to go downhill.  Things are strained between them, for a reason Oliver can't discern.  He's tempted to ask Elio about it, if he’s done something to upset or offend him, but he has a strong suspicion that Elio wouldn't respond well to that.  There are days, sometimes several in a row, where they spend most of their time together, doing their work out in the garden, without saying anything at all.  Oliver gets a frosty reception when he tries to engage Elio in conversation.

Maybe it's to do with the fact that Oliver realises, on the first day, that he's attracted to Elio.  Not in the way he would usually think of attraction, but there's _something_ about him.  Oliver doesn't believe in love at first sight, but he believes in the possibility of _something_ instantaneous.  Some sort of spark, or connection.  He's felt it before, though not as intensely as he feels it with Elio.  He can’t quite put his finger on it.  He feels that _something_ , whatever it might be, with Elio, that first morning in Italy.  Although he believes in it, he doesn't quite know what the feeling is, exactly, much less what it might mean, so he takes note of it but doesn't pay it much heed.

Oliver wants to talk to Elio, for one thing- to spend hours talking, actually, finding out everything about him, talking about all the things Oliver knows they have in common.  He wants to know the things Elio knows, and he wants Elio to be the one to tell him.  And, strangely, he wants to stare at him- despite the fact that, physically, Elio is far from Oliver's usual type.  Oliver tells himself that he doesn't feel that way about Elio, that Elio's far too skinny, too young looking, too pale, but it doesn't make any difference.  Oliver’s eyes are constantly drawn to him anyway.

When he catches Oliver staring at him, Elio gives him the darkest, most hostile looks. So none of Oliver's feelings matter, really, because Elio doesn't seem interested- at least, that's true most of the time.  But at other times he's not so sure.  Because sometimes Oliver can feel Elio's eyes on him.  He knows those looks- he's had them before, from both men and women.  But he's not sure if Elio knows this, knows the implications of the way he looks at Oliver, or if it's even intentional on his part.  Elio gives such mixed messages, and however hard he tries, Oliver just can't interpret them.  He's met guys before who are uncomfortable with the fact that they're attracted to another man, so maybe the confusion is something to do with that?  But the more he thinks about it, the more he decides that's not the feeling he gets from Elio, not really. 

When Oliver looks back at Elio- if he looks back at him, because he tries not to- Elio averts his gaze or gives Oliver another one of his dark glares, seemingly angry at being caught out.  

Oliver knows that, some of the time, they’re flirting.  Maybe this _thing_ between them is nothing more than sexual tension.  Maybe they should just fuck and be done with it, so they can move on.  

On one hand, that sounds like a great idea.  Fantastic, even.  But on the other hand, everything about the idea feels wrong.  It’s yet another conundrum Oliver can’t work out.

* * *

 

It’s one of those afternoons when they're hanging out with Elio's friends, who are now also sort of Oliver's friends, when it happens. Nobody really wears many clothes around here, and Elio's driving him a little bit crazy.  He's standing there, expression unreadable, body long and slim and straight, and Oliver acts on the spur of the moment. What he wants to do is put his hands on Elio's waist, run them up to his ribs and- he doesn't do that, though.  Of course not.  Instead, Oliver touches Elio's shoulder.  Elio's skin is warm from the sun and slightly damp with sweat, and he feels as slender as he looks.  It's a touch that could be interpreted as meaningless, just barely more, perhaps, than a grasp that wouldn't be inappropriate between friends.  It’s certainly nothing invasive enough to warrant the reaction he gets.  Elio flinches away as though he’s been burned, then flat out refuses to look at Oliver, standing beside him.  It’s an unexpected reaction, because Elio’s tactile enough with his family and friends for Oliver to have assumed he would, at the very worst, be indifferent to his touch.  Apparently not.  Elio doesn’t say the words, but he doesn’t need to say anything when his reaction makes his meaning so clear.   _Don’t touch me_.

So that's one evening when he deliberately avoids Elio. He's trying to process what Elio's reaction means and why it bothers him so much, and he doesn't want to try to do that while sitting next to Elio at dinner- especially since tonight is Saturday, and it's one of those nights when another group of Perlman relatives are going to descend on the house.  As far as Oliver can tell, there seems to be no limit to the number of Perlmans, an endless collection of aunts and uncles and cousins and other, presumably more distant relations.  Everyone will talk at once, and they'll all want to talk to the tall, handsome American.  Much of the conversation will be in Italian, so simply following it will take all of Oliver’s concentration.  The children will want to sit on his lap or get him to join in their games.  It will be noisy, probably borderline chaotic, especially as the evening goes on and the adults have had a few glasses of wine, leaving the children to make whatever mischief they will.  Elio, fed up of being classed as one of the children, will probably be grouchy and silent.  Oliver doesn’t feel like dealing with all of that this evening, so he goes to town and plays a few hands of poker. It's getting late when he leaves the bar, but he runs into some friends, from the same group who were playing volleyball that afternoon, and they're going to Moscazzano, so he joins them. There are drinks and there's dancing and they end up at someone's house- Oliver's not sure whose- where he wakes up on a sofa just after dawn. It's chilly.  His head is pounding, his mouth dry and tasting of stale alcohol, and he's no closer to working out his thoughts about Elio.

He thinks about it more over the coming days and concludes that Elio's not interested. That he should keep his distance. He's still confused, because sometimes he gets the impression that Elio doesn't want him to keep his distance at all, but... it doesn't matter.  He's not here for romance.  Or sex.  He's not even here to make friends.  He's here to work on his book, and maybe get a tan, and really, Elio's friendship or lack thereof is unimportant.

Except that it's not.  Somehow, it feels strangely like the most important thing in his life right now.  The most important thing in his life for a really long time.

Oliver keeps trying to work out what’s going on.  He feels that there's a pattern to their interactions, something he says or does which provokes a particular behaviour from Elio- cause and effect, action and reaction.  But he can't quite grasp it.  Sometimes he thinks he's about to catch that thought, that he can feel it right there by his fingertips, but it always eludes him at the last moment, fluttering away on the breeze.

He’s sick of staring at Elio.

He wants to stare at him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there are now going to be 5 chapters instead of 3. I looked at the summary I'd written for what was going to be chapter 1 and it said 'Oliver's backstory, up until they kiss'. Oh how wrong I was. But a big chunk of the next chapter is written so I'll try and carry on with that soon, before I lose track of it!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	3. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver clearly does not have a grip on himself.

Oliver's relaxed routine continues as the days become weeks.  He goes to town to see his translator.  He plays poker.  He meets friends to swim, or play games, or go out for drinks, or just sit around in the sun.  He works on his book with the professor. 

The professor treats Oliver like a colleague when it comes to his work, valuing his opinions and offering advice about his manuscript without ever seeming patronising.  In other matters, though, Oliver sometimes feels as though the Perlmans treat him more like a child than they do Elio.  He feels like they're looking after him- protective, almost.  As though they feel a responsibility for him.  He can see where that comes from- he is, after all, someone else's child, and not so much older than their own son.   They're looking after Oliver in the way they'd want Elio to be looked after if he went to stay with strangers in a strange country.  And Oliver probably does need just a little looking after- he knows that the professor saw through him immediately, saw the shyness hidden beneath his long-practised, confident veneer.  The professor has let Oliver find his own comfort zone, his own place within the family.  And Oliver does feel included in the family.  Despite his concerns, he's never made to feel as though he's imposing, but at the same time he feels free to come and go as he pleases without the need for explanation. The Perlmans meant it when they said _our home is your home_.  He feels more at home here than he would ever have thought possible. 

Oliver wouldn't swap his own family for the world.  But he does wonder, sometimes, what his life would be like if he'd been born in Elio's place instead of his own.  There's a lot about Elio's life that he envies- the house full of books, the lazy summers spent in the sunshine, the interesting people around him who know so much- but there are other aspects he doesn't think he could bear.  He wonders if Elio ever wishes he wasn't an only child, for one thing.  Oliver imagines the mischief he and his siblings would have made in this rambling old house, gleeful games of hide-and-seek and pranks played on the stuffy old people who come over for lunch.  Elio has never had a companion to do these things with.

And Oliver isn’t sure how he would have coped with the lack of boundaries set in the Perlman household.  Elio’s upbringing has been unconventional, to say the least.  He does exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants to, with no restrictions.  He can see who he likes, stay out as late as he likes, sleep in as late as he likes, and nobody even seems to notice.  He doesn’t even think about it, because this is all he’s ever known.  And perhaps because of that, he seldom actually chooses to do any of the things other young people his age might be forbidden from doing.  Chiara, one of their friends, tells him "never a bedtime in their house, no rules, no supervision, nothing.  That’s why he’s such a well-behaved boy.  Don’t you see?  Nothing to rebel against.”  It makes a strange sort of sense.

Oliver knows he’s attracted the attention of several of the girls from the group of friends who hang around, but Chiara is the one who pursues him with determination.  She’s seventeen, and she’s pretty, and Oliver doesn’t discourage her.  He bumps into her in town one morning whilst visiting his translator, and they go for drinks together.  Being around her is easy.  It's what people expect, and, honestly?  He likes her.  She's attractive.  If he'd met her in New York he would have been happy to date her.  But something is holding him back from making this into something more. 

He tells himself he doesn’t know what it is, because the truth is something he doesn’t dare think about.

 

Oliver finds plenty of things to do, and people to see.  But his mornings are Elio's, and Elio's alone.  The two of them have settled into their own shared routine, which excludes everyone else.  Every day, unless it's pouring with rain, they sit outside and work on their respective projects.  Oliver has a spot on the grass where he works on his book.  Elio sits at a table and works on his music.  They talk a little.  Sometimes one or both of them will swim, or take a nap in the sun.  Sometimes Oliver _pretends_ to work on his book, or _pretends_ to sleep, whilst actually staring at Elio.  If Elio catches him, he will most probably give Oliver a hostile look, and Oliver will look away, puzzling over what it means. Sometimes Oliver feels Elio staring at him whilst _pretending_ to sleep or _pretending_ to work on his music.  Oliver tries not to show he notices, tries not to look at Elio, because if he does, Elio will look away as though he's been caught red-handed.  Sometimes it all gets too much, and Oliver will remove himself from the situation, retreating into the house with a casual _later._

It's a strange little dance they're engaging in.

And sometimes there are silent mornings.  Sometimes the silent mornings extend to become silent days.  Oliver isn’t sure why these happen.  At first he tries to get Elio to talk, but Elio makes it clear that he's not interested.  It seems, in fact, as though Oliver may have done something wrong- but he can't think what it could be.  After two days when, for some reason, Elio just doesn't want to talk, Oliver decides it's time to take matters into his own hands.  It’s reached the point where Elio seems to be avoiding not just Oliver, but everyone.  Oliver met some friends in town while delivering pages to his translator, and they said they were going to the river to swim.  They said they’d called Elio to invite him, but he didn’t want to come.  When Oliver gets back to the house, Elio’s nowhere to be seen.  Presumably he’s holed up in his room, in one of his sulky moods, so Oliver goes and knocks on his door.  He doesn't wait before he opens it, which is a mistake- because he almost catches Elio with his hand in his underwear, and Elio is clearly _mortified_.  Oliver doesn’t know what to do to rectify this awkward situation, so he tries to break the tension by suggesting the two of them go for a swim.  This only makes the situation even worse, because when he grabs Elio’s hand to pull him up from the bed, it’s clear that Elio’s no longer in any doubt that Oliver knows exactly what he was doing.  Oliver curses his own stupidity and hastily retreats.  _I’m such an idiot.  No wonder he’s not speaking to me._

* * *

Oliver soon realises he's spending almost as much time working with Annella in the garden as he does with the professor.  She's keen to draw Oliver into the life of the family.  She asks him how he's settling in, if there's anything he needs, if Elio is looking after him.  Oliver is supposed to be there to help the professor, of course, but a year’s worth of muddled correspondence is organised and filed away within the first week, and his time with the professor mostly consists of discussing Oliver's manuscript and making revisions.  

At first Oliver wasn't sure whether Annella liked him- he knows she finds him very 'American', a contrast to her own cosmopolitan ways.  But before long it's clear that she enjoys his company.  When she asks Oliver to help her, she talks a lot.  She talks about how she and Samuel met.  She talks about her own childhood, and what it was like when she and her cousins came here for summers as a child, visiting her grandparents.  And, as all parents like to do, she talks a lot about Elio.  Especially about what he was like as a child- what a difficult baby he was, how he grew into a talkative toddler, full of laughter.  How he loved music, singing and dancing in his own baby way before he could even walk and talk.  About his first piano lessons, his early days at school.  Elio, teenager that he is, would be horribly embarrassed by some of the stories she shares- Oliver snorts with laughter at the image of a four-year-old Elio throwing a tantrum and taking off all his clothes, running around the garden naked and shrieking, when the chancellor of Oxford University came for dinner.  Oliver senses that, although she enjoys the discussions of politics and all things academic which are common over meals and lazy afternoons, Annella misses having people to talk to about these more mundane, domestic matters.  Oliver tells stories of his own family in exchange- about growing up in a small New England town, and his escapades with his brother and sister. 

He doesn't tell her that, most of the time, people thought he was a little odd, with his obsession for reading, for being happy alone and indoors.  He gets the feeling she knows anyway. 

And she talks about what Elio is like now.  About how proud she is of him.  About how she worries about him, sometimes, when he seems to prefer his books and music to the company of other people.  The very same concerns Oliver's own mother always had about him, despite how different she and Annella are.  One afternoon they're working side-by-side, picking the last of the cherries, and Oliver confesses that he sometimes thinks Elio doesn't like him very much.  Before he knows it he's pouring out all of his confusion about Elio- about how sometimes they seem to get on so well, and at other times Elio can't seem to stand to be around him.  Annella sympathises.  "Elio can be prickly- I'd be the first to admit that.  Part of it's because he's a teenager, which I'm sure you remember," she turns and gives Oliver a small smile, "but part of it's just who he is.  He's introverted, and he's not good at saying what he feels.  He likes you, though.  I can tell.  Mothers know these things.  You like him too?"  Oliver hums in agreement, tries to be non-committal.  "Oh, Oliver, you don't have to be polite.  If you don't like him, you can tell me.  I won't be offended.  I love him more than anything else in the world, but I know he's difficult to be around, sometimes."

"No, I do like him.  Of course I like him.  He's great.  He's fascinating.  I like him a lot.  It’s just that I really don't think he likes me very much."  Oliver's said far too much, and he's said it far too eagerly, and even worse, he can feel himself blushing.  _Idiot_.  His enthusiasm betrays the truth of his feelings about Elio.  Not that Oliver's completely certain what those are, still, but he can't deny that there's _something_ going on.  Oliver kicks himself for letting the emotions he usually hides so well bubble to the surface.  Does he care if Elio likes him?

Yes.  Yes, he does. 

"Well.  He likes you.  He does, I promise.  So there you go."  Her smile says she knows _exactly_ what Oliver's feeling, but intends to say no more on the matter.

* * *

The days continue to pass and there are still times when Elio gives Oliver the most intense, dark looks, glaring at him as though he wishes more than anything that Oliver had never been born.  But on other days he's all sunshine and sweetness.  On those days their work is forgotten as they sit together on neutral ground by the pool or on the grass by Elio's table, and talk about anything and everything.  Oliver’s fascinated by Elio, and he wonders why, in all his life, he's never had a friend like Elio before.  Some people have looked down at Oliver because he's not rich like them. Other people have looked up at him, daunted because he's too intelligent, because he reads too much, knows too much.  But Elio?  He's the same as Oliver, has had the same problem.  His parents and their friends look down at him because he's the baby, still just a child in their eyes, the one who doesn't have anything worthwhile to say.  And his friends are a little intimidated by him, because he's just too clever.  So Oliver feels as though there’s a sameness, an equality between them that he’s never felt with anyone else.  Elio is perhaps the only person Oliver’s ever met who truly makes him think _we’re alike, you and me_.

Sometimes their conversation is serious and intellectual- but they laugh a lot, too.  There’s a lot of gentle, good-natured teasing.  Oliver will call Elio a precocious child.  Elio will make fun of Oliver for his ignorance about a composer or a writer. 

Sometimes on those days they find themselves so lost in conversation that Mafalda will come and fetch them because they're missing lunch, chastising them because she already called them twice and why can't they pay attention? 

On those days, if he's lucky, Elio might grace him with one of his huge, heart-stopping smiles, and Oliver will think _I did that_.  He finds himself living for the days when he makes Elio smile.

 

Eventually there’s no question.  Because despite all his denials, and his uncertainties, Oliver knows flirting when he sees it.  When he partakes in it.  He’s had plenty of interest in his time, from both women and men.  He knows how this goes. 

But Elio flirts with words and music, with intellect, not with coy touches and giggles and fluttering eyelashes.  It’s refreshing and also sort of terrifying, because it connects with Oliver in a way he’s never known before.

One afternoon Elio’s playing guitar, sitting on a wall in just a pair of cut off jean shorts which are a little too big for him, slipping down to rest low on his hips whenever he walks.  Oliver knows with absolute certainty that if he grabbed Elio by his belt loops, he could slide those shorts right off him without even unbuttoning them.  Not that he’s thinking about that, of course- or so he tells himself.  Oliver’s dozing, pretending to be asleep while he listens to Elio play.  He can feel Elio staring at him while he plays.  He could happily lie here all day, all year, for the rest of his life, baking in the afternoon sun and knowing that Elio’s watching him.

When Elio leads him inside to listen to him play the piano, Oliver follows without hesitation.  This is Elio at his most precocious, most teasing.  He shows off, changing the piece around, and then, finally, just as Oliver’s about to leave, plays the piece so prettily it melts Oliver’s heart. 

Before they go back outside, Elio turns to Oliver and smiles. Oliver meets his eyes, suddenly aware of his own shallow breath, of a tension between them that wasn’t there a week or two ago.  Elio sees something in Oliver’s face and tenses.

The moment's broken.

 

They’re flirting and Oliver knows it- but he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

So he settles for doing nothing.  He’s pretty sure that’s the best option.  He can tell that Elio doesn’t know quite what he’s doing, that he’s unsure.  Oliver suspects that Elio doesn’t have much experience with men or boys- maybe none at all.  Oliver’s not planning on being the one to change that.  Flirting is one thing, flirting is okay, but Oliver knows that nothing can come of this. 

Oliver likes Elio a lot, and sometimes he can see that Elio likes him back.  They’re friends, more so every day, but Oliver is astute enough to know that the way he likes Elio is turning into something more.   All the more reason why nothing can come of this flirtation- if anything happens, someone’s going to get hurt.  _Everyone_ will probably get hurt, actually, because Oliver already feels much too deeply for what this can be- a fling, a few weeks of fun before he goes back to New York. 

As the days continue to pass Oliver comes to realise that while there are still mornings spent in silence, with neither of them saying more than a few words, these days are no longer hostile- in fact there's a special, strangely intimate quality to them.  The dark glares have ceased, and in their place there are more timid glances, more smiles.  It's the easiest, most companionable silence Oliver has ever known. He doesn't feel any pressure to speak for the sake of speaking.  There’s no need to fill the quiet with small talk, no-one to impress. 

It’s a silence that says there's no need for words between them.

* * *

Oliver’s been in Italy for three weeks when he gets hit by the realisation that Elio is beautiful.  Stunningly, exquisitely beautiful.  He would have expected such a realisation to happen at a profound moment, but it actually happens at the breakfast table on a Tuesday morning.  Elio’s lost in his own thoughts, coffee cup in hand, face serious and dappled in the sunlight shining through the trees.  Oliver’s brain stutters to a halt and his breath hitches, loudly.  The professor lowers his newspaper to look at him and Annella, who’s talking about the guests they’re expecting for lunch today, stops mid-sentence. 

“Are you alright, Oliver?”  She probably thinks he’s about to choke. 

“Oh, yes, fine, thank you.  Fine.  I’m gonna- get some water-“ he gestures toward the house, drops his napkin onto the table.  “Excuse me.  Later.” 

Inside it's cool and dark. Oliver leans against the wall and exhales shakily.  _Elio_.  It’s getting harder and harder to do nothing.  Maybe he should just _go_ , fly back home early, _today_ , because this is… difficult.  He hasn’t been able to deny his attraction almost since the moment they met.  But this.  This is something else.  He feels things, wants to do things that he’s been keeping buried, hidden beneath the safety of casual flirting. 

Still.  He’s not going to do anything about this new development.

And despite Oliver’s realisation, the morning continues like any other.  It's searingly hot, and uncomfortably humid.  Oliver works on his book, lying on his back on the cool stone surrounding the pool.  Elio sits soaking up the morning sun, half asleep.  His mouth is slightly open and Oliver wants to go over to him and touch his bottom lip.

He wants, desperately, to lick the tiny droplets of sweat forming a sheen above Elio's collarbones.  He wants to press his face into Elio’s neck, until Elio fills his lungs.  He wants to kiss his way up Elio’s spine.  He wants to move his lips along the almost-imperceptible curve that is Elio’s waist.  He wants to run a fingertip along Elio’s hipbone.  He wants and he _wants_.

He wants other things, too, things he just can’t, mustn't let himself think about.

In an attempt to distract himself from his own thoughts, Oliver asks Elio for his opinion about a troublesome paragraph from his book.  It’s more than troublesome, actually- it’s borderline nonsense, and Oliver has no idea what it even means.  But with Elio standing over him, looking over his manuscript, Oliver’s thoughts turn back to Elio, and since he’s lying there at Elio’s feet in nothing but his swimming trunks, Oliver’s feelings are about to make themselves plainly, abundantly visible.  This isn’t a time he can just flee with a carefree cry of ‘later’, as he’s done so often before when Elio has made him flustered. 

A dunking in an ice-cold pool is probably a good solution to all his problems right now, so he takes a breath and rolls face-first into the water while Elio looks on in confusion.

That afternoon, when Oliver goes indoors to get dressed, he opens the closet to find a clean shirt.  The closet in his room, which is usually Elio’s room, where a lot of Elio’s clothes still hang.  Clothes which probably smell like Elio.  Oliver will never know, he tells himself, because to smell Elio’s clothes would be very odd behaviour.  He needs to get a grip on himself. 

Elio’s clothes smell, as it turns out- of laundry detergent, mostly.  But they also smell, a little, of Elio, of the scent Oliver catches sometimes when they sit close together on the grass or when they walk side-by-side, shoulders almost bumping.

Oliver clearly does not have a grip on himself.

* * *

In an attempt to distract himself, Oliver spends more time out with friends.  He flirts, openly, with Chiara, and she flirts back.  Sometimes Elio comes along, sometimes not.  If he does decide to join them, sometimes he looks as though he’s happy to be there, but sometimes not.  When they’re out with their friends, he and Elio give no indication of the close friendship they share when they’re alone together in the garden at home.  Marzia, one of the girls who Elio is closest to, sometimes looks at Oliver strangely, glances between him and Elio as though she knows something.  There’s a question written on her face, but Oliver doesn’t know what it is.  He wishes he did, because most of the time he feels as though he doesn’t know _anything_ about what’s going on between himself and Elio.

They're out dancing and drinking with the whole group of friends one night when Chiara kisses him.  Or maybe he kisses her.  It doesn't much matter.  Either way- Oliver dances with her, and they kiss, and he thinks he can feel Elio’s eyes on him.  He feels a strange satisfaction at that.  _Good._ And then suddenly Elio’s on his feet, dancing, and he’s in Oliver's space, near enough that Oliver could reach out and grab him by his hips, pull him close.  Oliver closes his eyes, knowing that if he watches Elio the temptation might be too much.  He's not drunk, but he's had enough to drink that he might just do something rash.  Something inappropriate, certainly.  Something which Elio might not want.

Or maybe he would.  It might be something Elio _would_ want, and that might be even worse.

Perhaps it's fortunate that Chiara suggests leaving soon after.  Oliver walks her home, kisses her again, kisses her a lot.  For a few minutes he forgets about Elio.  Because it’s been too long since Oliver kissed a pretty girl, and if feels good.  Chiara makes it clear that she’s interested in taking things further, and Oliver’s body would be happy to oblige, but despite his best attempts at distraction his brain has reverted to thinking about Elio.  It’s irritating, because a summer fling with a pretty girl is exactly what Oliver needs.  It would be pleasant in itself and an easy option, simply because it's exactly what people expect him to do.  Then he would go back to New York, and she would cry, and they’d write a few times and remember each other fondly, because they’d both known all along that this was only ever going to be a short-term thing.  That’s what Oliver should do.  It would put a stop to this _thing_ , that isn’t really a thing, between him and Elio. 

But he just _can’t._

* * *

The next morning Oliver realises, with a clarity he hasn’t had before, just how unusual Elio’s relationship with his parents is.  It’s utterly unlike anything Oliver’s ever known.  He’s met wealthy, liberal types before but the Perlmans are something else.   Elio talks to them about everything.  Not always, because he certainly has his fair share of secrets- but there are no taboo subjects between them.  And this morning there’s a bizarre development when Elio lowers the newspaper he’s reading and tells his father, over breakfast, that he almost had sex with Marzia the previous night.  It’s just as casual as if he was asking him to pass the apricot juice.  Oliver has to make an effort not to let his jaw drop in shock, because he can’t think of anybody in the world who he’d speak to like that, really.  Certainly not his own father.  Oliver cannot imagine a universe where his own father would tolerate such talk over the breakfast table.  Oliver’s father, who he’s been trying not to think about, who would find the direction of Oliver’s recent thoughts disgusting.   But Elio’s father?  He doesn’t miss a beat before he asks, apparently nonplussed, "well, why didn’t you?".  Not _well_ , _I hope you’re being careful_ , or _don’t tell me that, I’d rather not know,_ or even _not during breakfast, Elio, let's talk about this later-_ but “why didn’t you?”  Elio gives more detail than Oliver thinks is strictly necessary.  Oliver isn't sure whether he imagines the challenge in Elio's voice, the tone that says _what are you going to do about this, Oliver?_

Fortunately the professor changes the subject.  His archaeologist colleagues have found something in Lake Garda, and the professor is going to drive out there for the day.  He invites Oliver to join him, and Oliver should be thrilled, but his heart sinks a little at the thought of spending a whole day away from Elio’s company.  Oliver’s annoyed at himself, because _sitting in the sunshine chatting to Elio, who almost had sex with Marzia last night_ is not the reason why he came to Italy.  It’s not the reason why this trip is such a fantastic opportunity for him.  But all the same, he knows he’ll spend most of the drive there thinking about Elio, wondering whether he’s sitting in his usual spot by the pool, wondering whether Elio’s thinking of him too.  Elio will probably be thinking of Marzia.  Maybe, since Oliver's not there and there's no-one to talk to, Elio will go out and meet Marzia and finish what he started last night.  The thought of Elio having sex with Marzia makes Oliver feel something.  He’s not sure what, but he’s determined not to examine it too carefully.  It’s best left alone.

Oliver hates the sense of relief that washes over him when Elio asks to join them.  Feeling relieved is nice, of course, but it's really not something he should be feeling about this situation.  He shouldn't be feeling anything about this situation, because it shouldn't make any difference whatsoever whether Elio comes along or not.  

This morning has already given Oliver far too many feelings for his liking.  He downs his glass of juice and excuses himself- _later!-_ to go inside and get ready for the trip. 

While he helps the professor prepare, Oliver decides that two can play at Elio's little game.  What Oliver can do is push Elio to make him think about whether he feels _something_ when he thinks about Oliver with someone else, that same _something_ Oliver has been feeling since Elio's announcement at breakfast.  As luck would have it, the opportunity to do just that presents itself in the form of Chiara, arriving at the house to speak to Oliver.  She’s keen to continue where they left off last night, clearly oblivious of Oliver’s mixed feelings.  Oliver steers her by the arm to the front of the house where Elio waits by the car.  Leans in close and kisses her.  It's only on the cheek, but it's slow and he lingers for a moment.  She smells nice.  He doesn’t look at Elio.

But Elio has seen, and just as Oliver has pushed Elio, Elio pushes back.  Oliver’s annoyance threatens to spill over into a quiet, internal anger.  Annoyance with Elio, yes, but mostly with himself for his own pettiness.  Because of course Elio can sleep with whoever he likes.  Oliver certainly has no claim on him, has no right whatsoever to be bothered by this.  They’re friends, and nothing more, and Oliver may have just damaged their friendship with his ridiculous behaviour.

But something has changed between them.  It’s only small, and on some level it’s nothing Oliver didn’t already know, but nonetheless there’s been a confirmation of sorts about how they both feel. 

Oliver can no longer deny the fact that he’s falling, and he’s falling hard.  Once they’ve made up, Elio is full of smiles for the rest of the day, and his happiness is infectious.  Before they leave the lake, the professor watches them as they swim and splash and mess around, looking on with a fond wistfulness in his gaze.  As night falls, Oliver floats on his back, smiling, and watches the sky as the stars come out one by one.

Oliver calls Elio’s name.  Elio calls back. 

Oliver thinks this might be one of the best days of his life.

 

The next morning is breezy and fresh, despite the heat.  Elio doesn't appear outside, which is unusual, but not unheard of.  Perhaps he's tired, having rushed off late in the evening when they returned home last night.  Presumably he was meeting Marzia, and Oliver feels as though that should have bothered him, but somehow it didn't.  Yesterday confirmed something between them, something intangible but important, and Oliver finds he honestly doesn't care if Elio has sex with Marzia, as long as he and Elio continue to have... whatever this thing between them is.  

Oliver hears Elio playing the piano, the melody drifting lazily out through the ever-open windows and doors.  He closes his eyes and listens, dozing contentedly under the trees.  Eventually he realises that the piano has stopped, but there’s still no sign of Elio.  Oliver sighs and decides he might as well head into town for the rest of the morning.  He didn’t see his translator yesterday, after all, and there will probably be some friends around to catch up with.  He needs to try to take his mind off Elio.  He knows Elio well enough by now to know that if he hasn't come outside, he doesn't want to be bothered this morning.

That night, when Oliver goes to bed, he's almost sure he catches the faintest hint of Elio's scent on his sheets.

* * *

Oliver thinks.  He spends a lot of time, an ever-increasing amount of time, lost in his own thoughts.  It's been nearly a week since he met his friends to play poker, and when he runs into people in town they’re starting to ask him where he’s been, why he's hardy ever around any more, if there’s something wrong.  There’s nothing wrong, though.  Not really.

There's a hidden spot in the garden where Oliver spends a lot of his time in the evenings.  He takes a book and tells himself he's going out there to read, but what he actually does is sit with his book open, eyes scanning the same words over and over but taking nothing in, while he thinks.  He smokes, too, because he's taken it up again in the hope that it would calm him and help him to think more clearly.  It doesn’t, but he keeps doing it anyway.

Sometimes Oliver thinks about himself.  About how he'd hoped that some distance from his everyday life would give him perspective and help him to work out the direction the rest of his life is going in.  There are decisions he's going to have to make, and he needs to make them soon.  He'd intended to go home after the summer with his thoughts about himself, about women, about men, about the future- all worked out.  It's becoming increasingly clear that that's not going to happen.  If anything, Oliver's more confused than ever. 

Mostly, though, he thinks about this thing with Elio.  Oliver's been attracted to a lot of people before, and he recognised his attraction for Elio immediately.  But what started as attraction has grown feelings.  And the feelings make it more difficult not to act- yet at the same time more difficult _to_ act on things, because there's more, so much more, at stake.  It’s happened slowly, and gently, creeping up on him a little at a time- in timid smiles and shared laughter, in conversation both with and without words.  He thinks about the words he wants to say to Elio.  _I've never met anyone like you before.  I've never met anyone who makes me feel the things you do.  It frightens me.  You frighten me._

He _wants_ Elio, and he wants _Elio_ , and he's surprised to learn that those two things which are, on the surface, the same, are in fact utterly different.  The _wanting_ is something he can make sense of, because sex has crossed his mind, of course it has.  It occupies quite a lot of his mind, actually.  Sex with Elio, specifically.  If Elio wants that, if that’s _all_ Elio wants, Oliver would take it. 

But it wouldn't be all that he wanted, or even the main thing that he wants, because at the same time, even more urgently, he wants _Elio_.  All of him, desperately.  He wants to crawl inside Elio’s skin and live there. 

He’d happily die there, actually. 

This is not a good development. 

Oliver is almost certain that at least a part of Elio feels the same way.  But Elio is so young.  Oliver tells himself that Elio is _seventeen_ , for heaven's sake.  He's younger than Oliver's baby sister.  He's younger than the undergraduates Oliver teaches back at Columbia. 

Elio doesn’t seem young, though.  Not at all.  He knows more than any of Oliver’s undergraduates.  He could hold a more interesting conversation than almost any of the other doctoral students Oliver knows.  There’s something about Elio that’s older and wiser, _much_ older and wiser, than Oliver.  

But Elio _is_ young, and unsure, and despite his confidence and intelligence, somewhere just beneath the surface there's something endearingly, frighteningly naïve.  A shyness that means Elio never says exactly what he means, almost as if he _knows_ what he really means, but isn’t sure whether he wants those things to be true.  More than anything, Oliver wants to make sure Elio doesn't get hurt or messed up by this.

So Oliver’s not going to act on his feelings.  He can think of any number of reasons why acting on his feelings, even talking about them, isn't a good idea.  And he wants to be good.  Not that doing these things would be _bad,_ exactly.  The _good_ he's thinking of isn't the opposite of bad, not really.  Shades of grey, not black and white.  The things he thinks about doing with Elio fall firmly in that grey area.  The things he thinks about more and more often.

There’s Oliver's position as Professor Perlman’s assistant to consider.  It would be inappropriate, to say the least, of him to sleep with the Professor’s son.  He might be sent back home on the next flight.  The Professor might complain about his conduct to the University.  This could end his career before it's even really started.  Admittedly, for the professor to react like this would be contrary to everything Oliver knows about the him, but how well does he know him, really?  Oliver first met him less than a month ago.  The Perlmans are very liberal, but there's a big difference between acceptance of homosexuality in principle and acceptance of the man who comes into your home, lets you feed and house him for six weeks, and repays your hospitality by fucking your teenage son, your only child.  Corrupting him, some people would say.

For all Oliver knows the Professor may hold similar views about homosexuality, deep down, to his own father.  Oliver's blood runs cold at the thought of men he's known who have been disowned by their families for being gay.  Oliver loves the Perlmans and can't imagine them treating Elio that way, but of course he can't be absolutely sure.  People can be strange when it comes to their own children.  While many are more tolerant toward their own, some can be less so, perhaps because they're ashamed of the way their children's behaviour reflects on them.

So that's the practical considerations.  Aside from those, there's the fact that everyone-  society, his faith, his parents- have taught him that it's not right.  He made the decision when he first started experimenting with boys to accept that on some level it's _wrong_ \- and to do it anyway.  There's a vague, lingering sense of shame that follows his encounters, the short relationships he's had with men- but it's not something he loses sleep over.  He's made his peace with it, has never really let it bother him, because it may be wrong but it's the sort of wrong that does no-one any harm.  Oliver, pragmatic as he is, just can't bring himself to get worked up about it. 

But Elio?  Oliver worries about Elio.  This would be wrong, completely wrong, if it did Elio any harm.  He doesn't want to be the reason why Elio makes a choice- a huge, life-altering choice- that he wouldn't otherwise have made.  He doesn't want Elio to do something that makes him feel ashamed or like he's done something bad.  Oliver may have resigned himself to the niggling wrongness he just can’t shake when it comes to thinking about his own desires, but he doesn't know Elio's feelings on the matter.  Oliver has seen too many men who are conflicted about their feelings towards other men, who hate themselves and feel agonised by their choices.  He doesn't want those things for Elio, doesn't want Elio to even have to _think_ about these things.  Elio’s life will be so much easier if he just sticks to liking girls- which, luckily for him, he clearly does. 

It's not something he and Elio have ever talked about, because it's not something they _can_ talk about.  It's something people simply don't talk about.  

Oliver knows all of these things, all of these reasons why this would be wrong.  And yet he can't help but think that there would be something so _right_ about it.

But Oliver has to leave in less than three weeks.  If anything happened between him and Elio, it would have to end so soon.  Both of them have so much to lose, and there's so little to gain.  He knows nothing can come of this.  And if he lets it happen, somebody’s going to get hurt.  Everybody will probably get hurt, because he already feels too deeply for what this can be- a fling, a week or two of fun before he goes back home. 

However much he thinks, he comes back to the same conclusion again and again.  _No_.  I can’t.  Oliver has to be good, however difficult it might be.  Even though Oliver doesn't have any of these things worked out for himself he's still the older, more experienced one.  He has to be responsible.

So he won’t.  But still, he thinks about it.  A lot.

* * *

Before Oliver knows it, he's been in Italy for almost a month.  He has a little more than two weeks before he flies home, and there's still so much to do.  His manuscript is coming along well, but it's far from polished.  He's been meaning to go to Bergamo to do some research at the university, and he really should have done it by now, but he keeps putting it off.  It somehow felt like so much effort to leave this little haven for a few days, and it felt like the summer would stretch on forever.  But now he's realising it will be over before he knows it.

Things are still strange with Elio.  Every day makes Oliver more and more certain about Elio's feelings.  Oliver knows he can't act on this, but he wants to, more than ever.  He finds himself spending even less time going out into town, and even more time out in his corner of the garden, sitting under a tree, thinking, as darkness falls.  Should he say something?  Ask something?  Do something?  His mind runs in circles without reaching any meaningful conclusions.  He keeps coming back to something Elio's mentioned- a story his mother has been reading about a knight who's in love with a princess but doesn't know whether to speak or to die.  Oliver knows Annella sees everything that's going on in the household, and the parallels to his situation with Elio are clear- there's no way she has chosen this story by chance.  It's no coincidence that Annella has read that story to Elio, and it's no coincidence that Elio has talked to Oliver about it.  But the story doesn't bring Oliver any closer to an answer.

If Oliver didn't already know how Elio feels, then his mention of this story would confirm it- the knight and the princess are in love, and both know how the other feels, but daren't act on it.  They don't want to ruin the friendship which has developed between them, which makes their decision even more difficult. 

Not that Oliver is in love with Elio.  Of course he's not.  He's avoiding putting a word to how he feels, actually- but _love_ is a word he's determined _not_ to think _._

If he says something, then what could happen?  If he says nothing, what are the consequences?  Surely if he does nothing, then these feelings will die off when he leaves.  If he says nothing, then he'll never know.  Never know Elio's answer, and never know what could have been.  He's not sure whether that's a bad thing, because, realistically, _what could have been_ is not very much at all.  Nothing can come of this.  He doesn't need to experience that to know the truth of it.  Oliver leaves in just over two weeks.

Doing nothing is certainly an easy option, in many ways.  But there's something so unappealing about it.  Oliver can't quite work out what he has to lose or gain by either course of action. 

If he does something, if he lets something happen or causes it to happen, then whatever it is will have to die when he leaves- there's no way it could not.  Of that, at least, he is certain.  And what then?

Two weeks.

_Is it better to speak or to die?_

Oliver wishes he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no point me trying to pretend any more- this has basically become the whole story from Oliver's POV. This was not what I set out to do. In fact, I set out intending specifically NOT to do it. But I have to stop kidding myself and just go along with it. I don't have much of the next bit written, because this whole thing was supposed to be A LOT shorter than it's turning out to be. And also, that might be a good thing, because I had all of this current chapter written but in the wrong order etc, and then it took me about 2 weeks just to organise and edit what I already had. 
> 
> I seem to have settled into a routine of about 2 and a half weeks to update. Se let's aim for that again. It might be a bit longer though, because the half term holiday falls in that time and I'm taking the kids to stay at my dad's. We will spend most of the days with my mother, and if I try to write, she will nag me about what I'm doing. If I told her the truth she would take the piss out of me, because she's toxic like that. So I will probably have to find a more socially acceptable hobby for that week. Crochet, most likely. 
> 
> Anyway. If you haven't heard anything after 3 weeks, feel free to nag me. Just a bit, though.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	4. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They flop, side-by-side, in a patch of long grass. The heat is dry and sultry, the grass swaying in the slight breeze, which cools Oliver's skin where his shirt is still damp from being splashed by Elio. When Elio speaks, Oliver can't help but agree with his sentiment. I love this, too. I could stay here with you forever. This feels like heaven. "Us, you mean?"  
> And just like that, by making them into an us, Oliver has shifted the dynamic once more. There's an us now.

****Elio continues to occupy a lot of Oliver's thoughts, and he's therefore entirely to blame for the fact that Oliver falls off his bike early one morning.  He's riding back from town, thinking about Elio at breakfast earlier that day, eating a slightly overripe apricot and licking the juice from his fingers.  Oliver can hardly be blamed for finding this image distracting.  So he's not paying attention to what he's doing and he doesn't notice the bump in the road, and his back wheel clips it, sending him out of control and into a tree.  He grazes his hip, and while it's not deep, it stings and it's going to be sore.

It's absolutely, definitely, entirely Elio's fault.

 _Lost in thoughts about Elio_ has pretty much become Oliver's default state, so it's no surprise that that's exactly the situation he’s in when, two days after the tree incident, Elio again brings up the knight and princess story.  "Better to speak, she says.  But she's on her guard.  She suspects a trap."  _Her and me both,_ thinks Oliver.  Turns out the knight doesn't speak.  _He fudges._

Oliver doesn't want to think about what that means, about _So?  What happens then?_   _Where do they go from there?_   He doesn't want to talk to Elio about that, because Oliver knows they'd really be talking about the two of them, and he’s not ready for that discussion.  He doesn’t think he ever will be, actually.  So he decides that now would be a good time to shut this conversation down and head into town.

On impulse he invites Elio to join him.  There's no reason why Oliver would suggest this other than the fact that he enjoys Elio's company and likes being around him- which is fine, because they're friends, and that's a completely normal thing for friends to do.  So why does Oliver suddenly feel so nervous?  As though it matters, a lot, whether Elio comes along or not.  _Right now?_ Yes, thinks Oliver, practically leaping from the side of the pool to get his things together and just _go_.  Before I have a chance to change my mind, to lose my nerve and overthink this.  Before _you_ have a chance to change your mind. 

* * *

Oliver doesn’t expect Elio’s confession in the square.  _Is it better to speak or to die?_   He hadn’t expected Elio to decide, had expected him to put off the decision until it was too late, until Oliver left, until the only option left was to let this thing between them die.  Apparently Elio has other ideas.  _Better to speak_.  And by speaking, Elio makes it even more impossible for Oliver to ignore his feelings.  He's never been so grateful to have a cigarette in his hand, because it gives him something to focus on other than what has just happened.  He can hardly remember what he's supposed to do with the cigarette, actually, and even if he could his hands are suddenly shaking too much to smoke properly.  As they circle the square, separated by the monument in the middle, he takes a deep drag, wills the nicotine to please hurry up and do its job.  He sort of knew how Elio feels, knows that Elio feels _something_ along the same lines as what Oliver feels himself.  But he’d resigned himself to the fact that nothing can come of it- so there's no point in acknowledging it, let alone talking about it.

But now Elio has spoken, and that changes things.   Oliver doesn't need to confess that he feels the same way, because he knows his nervous body language is saying it loud and clear, and the words he's not going to say hang heavy in the air between them.  Elio wanted him to know, and Oliver wanted to know- of course he did, of course he wanted to know that Elio wants the same things he wants.  But now he has no idea what to do with this knowledge, or what to say to Elio, no idea at all, so he removes himself from the situation and from Elio’s proximity and goes to collect his pages from the translator.  While this only gives him a minute, it's enough time to work out that what he should say is _nothing_.  It's not what he wants to say, but Elio's confession doesn't change the fact that this just isn't something people talk about. 

Elio has always been an open book, and Oliver can see his nervousness when he returns with his annoyingly botched pages, and his disappointment when Oliver tells him they can’t talk about this.  Oliver wishes it wasn't true.  He wishes he could be brave enough to talk about it anyway.  He needs to say something, wants desperately to say _Elio, we can't talk about this, but I wish we could.  I feel the same things you feel, want the same things you want.  We can't, but still, I thought you should know.  I wanted you to know._

Oliver stands by his bike, thinking about the things he wants to say, deciding whether to speak or to die.  But when he resolves to speak, when he turns to Elio to tell him, with already half-formed in his mouth, Elio is already gone, calling breezily over his shoulder for Oliver to follow.

* * *

They ride for several miles.  They're talking, which is good, because Oliver had worried that things might suddenly be awkward between them.  But the conversation is normal, and the only clue that something is off between them is the fact that Elio's cycling at a pace Oliver can hardly keep up with.  The heat is oppressive and Oliver is breathless and sweaty and sort of wishes Elio had decided to take a more direct route home, so that he could cool off in the pool.

But Elio apparently has a destination in mind, and it's not somewhere Oliver's ever been before.  Elio leads him down what looks like a rough farm track before leaving his bike, throwing off his shoes and disappearing barefoot down a slope into a clear pool of water.  

So this is Elio's spot.  It's peaceful and beautiful, and Oliver can't tell if it's only his imagination but just being in this place seems to make Elio sound a little more confident, stand a little taller.  Oliver's unsure about Elio’s motivation, but he’s aware that by bringing him here Elio is letting him into something deeply personal.  They've cycled to town so often now, passed the end of the track that leads to this place countless times, and it's surely no coincidence that Elio's chosen today of all days to bring him here.  Despite their friendship, despite Elio's confession, Oliver feels like an intruder in this peaceful, isolated spot.

Oliver has to give Elio something back in exchange for his confession, in exchange for bringing him here.  So he tells him something he's noticed almost since the day they met.  _I like the way you say things.  I don't know why you're always putting yourself down._ Because the things Elio has said today?  Oliver would never have been brave enough to say those things himself.  He wonders how many other things Elio might come out and say, things that Oliver thinks too but doesn't have the courage to say out loud.

_So you won't, I suppose?_

On the surface it’s such a small thing, but it’s yet another thing that Oliver wouldn’t have been able to day.  He’d never be able to find the nerve to make himself so exposed by admitting he cares so much about what someone else thinks.

Oliver is still thinking about this when Elio surprises him again, this time not with words but with an action.  He takes a single step towards Oliver and looks up, right into Oliver's eyes.  They've never done this before, never really had a moment as intimate as this.  But Oliver can’t hold Elio’s gaze, finds his eyes drifting down over Elio's face while he focuses on breathing, trying not to _think_ about what this means and what he wants to do, how he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch.

Elio breaks the moment first, unable to hold back a smile, a smile that says _you're funny, Oliver, you can’t even look me in the eye.  I can't believe you're still trying to pretend you don't want this_.

* * *

They flop, side-by-side, in a patch of long grass.  The heat is dry and sultry, the grass swaying in the slight breeze which cools Oliver's skin where his shirt is still damp from being splashed by Elio.  When Elio speaks, Oliver can't help but agree with his sentiment.  _I love this, too.  I could stay here with you forever.  This feels like heaven._   "Us, you mean?"

And just like that, by making them into an _us_ , Oliver has shifted the dynamic once more.  There's an _us_ now.

When Oliver pushes up to lean on one elbow and look at Elio, he means to say something, although he hasn’t decided what- but it doesn't matter anyway.  Because after everything that's passed between them this morning he suddenly doesn't want to _say_ anything after all, can't think of a reason why not to _do_ what he suddenly, _desperately_ wants to do- which is to touch Elio's bottom lip.  He’s been dying to touch that mouth for weeks.  Oliver just plans touch for a moment then stop, he really does, but all his good intentions fly out of the window when Elio opens his mouth.  Oliver runs a finger over his lips, which are soft though a little dry from all the time spent out in the sun and the wind.  And then, as if that wasn't distracting enough, he wraps his tongue around Oliver's finger.  

Fuck.

Just like that, Oliver is _lost_ , suddenly frighteningly aroused, his head and body a haze of lust.  He wants, so desperately.  And he knows Elio wants the same thing.  Would it be so bad to just give in, for a moment? Is it better to speak or to die?  Is it better to do or to die?  Oliver can't make that decision, because although he knows he wants to act, he can't quite bring himself to do it.  

But he _can_ make himself do just enough to push Elio to make the decision for both of them.  Elio has shown himself to be the one with the courage to speak.  If anyone will have the courage to take action it will be Elio.  So Oliver cups Elio’s chin in his hand and turns his head, still resting on the grass, towards him.  _Your move._ Elio doesn't hesitate, propping himself up on his elbow, mirroring Oliver's position, moving into his space, asking. 

Oliver answers Elio’s unspoken request with a request of his own, a silent encouragement, granting permission with his fingers under Elio’s chin lightly guiding him up towards Oliver, before drifting away when Elio’s mouth is where Oliver wants it. 

Almost.  _Almost_.  He's close, he’s _so close_ , and Oliver can't help but smile slightly as he angles his own head towards Elio's and they breathe each other in, neither quite closing the gap between them.  The distance between them is both a vast gulf and a mere fraction of an inch, and however much Oliver might want to close it, the rest will have to come from Elio.  It’s up to him to breach this last gap.  Or not.  Maybe he won't.  Maybe this is as far as they go, maybe-

When Elio licks Oliver's lip, he's surprised the whole field doesn’t spontaneously burst into flames.  And then.  And then, Elio finally, _finally_ closes the last of the distance between them, and Oliver's world falls silent.

* * *

Oliver knows, immediately, that if this kiss is left unchecked it's going to go far and it's going to go there fast.  Even though nothing but their mouths are touching, Elio leans his whole body into the kiss.  Oliver manages to hold himself back and then pull away completely, feeling a spark of guilt and uncertainty as he breaks the kiss.  He needs time.  What was he thinking?  They can't do this.  He can't do this.  His feelings about Elio, and Elio’s feelings about him, and the fact that now, after that single kiss, he _wants_ more than ever- none of those things matter, because whichever way Oliver looks at this he knows that it’s a bad idea.  His _better now?_ says as much.  It’s supposed to say _so now we’ve done this, you’ve given it a try, and that’s that.  Are you over it?  We can draw a line under it now and you can get back to normal._

But when Elio leans in and over him for a second kiss, Oliver knows that it’s going to be up to him to put a stop to this. 

“No.  We’ve been good.  We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of, and that’s a good thing.  I want to be good.”  Because he does.  Taking this thing any further would be wrong, and he doesn’t want to drag Elio into that, doesn’t want to mess him up.

He doesn’t expect Elio to grab him.  Elio's words in the square may have been ambiguous, something only Oliver would understand, but this action leaves no doubt about what he wants.  Oliver wants the same thing, and Elio surely knows it.

It’s still a terrible idea.  Oliver takes a moment to take a deep breath and suppress a moan, willing away his impending erection through sheer strength of will, before slowly removing Elio's hand.  “Just don’t.” 

But the line has been crossed.  There’s no way back.

* * *

There's little conversation on the ride back.  Elio hurries ahead, and Oliver is happy to let him.  Although there's no going back from what just happened between them, things have to go _somewhere_ and Oliver's just not sure where. _No further_ , at least.  He doesn't know whether they should talk about it, or if it's best left completely alone.

Lunch is already starting when they get back to the house, and that provides a much needed distraction- until his foot inadvertently brushes against Elio's under the table.  And when Elio's brushes back- well, that's no accident.  When Oliver curls his toes over the top of Elio's foot, there's no point him even pretending that it's not absolutely deliberate.  Because it is.  It's deliberate, because it feels good for their weeks of flirting, of dancing around one another, to become something tangible, something physical.  And because there's something exciting, of course, about the clandestine nature of it, about doing this here and now, with the Perlmans and their lunch guests sitting right there.

And more than that- just because he wants to touch Elio.

But then suddenly Elio's running from the table, face buried in his napkin, and Oliver's left staring at the single shining drop of blood on Elio's ice cream.

* * *

Oliver leaves the house that afternoon, as soon as he can politely do so.  He should probably stick around to see if Elio’s alright, and to talk to him, because there are things he wants to say, but he just _can't_.  He doesn't know what he might do.  He knows what he _wants_ to do and he knows that it wouldn’t be appropriate, wouldn't be good at all.  He needs some time to regroup after their kiss, and the scene at lunch, and afterwards, sitting, folded into a corner, with Elio's feet in his hands and in his lap.  With Elio's fingers drifting down his neck, past his shirt collar, trailing along his chest.  The Star of David, which Oliver never takes off, twisting between Elio's fingers.

His self-control must be even more torn apart than he thought, because he shouldn't have let _any_ of these things happen.  But after all these weeks of wanting, it felt so good to give in, just for a few moments.

He cycles aimlessly for a while until, without having made a conscious decision, he finds himself back at Elio's place.  He takes off his shoes and sits, feet dangling in the icy water. 

And he thinks.  Did all of that really happen?

Things aren't _better now_ , not for him at least.  They're worse.  Worse because he knows things now that he didn't know before this morning.  Not only the fact that Elio knows so little about the things that matter, but other things that he can't un-know and he can't un-want.  Like what Elio's lips feel like pressed against his own.  Like the slight flush of pink on his cheeks when Oliver pulled away, which made Oliver want to find out where else on his body that might happen.  Like the way Elio kisses- all open mouthed and wet and wanting and unbelievably hot.  Like the way Elio leaned in and up and over him, wanting to be closer and have more.

But these are things that Oliver should not want and cannot have. Things that he should never have found out about, because honestly?  What was he _thinking_?  Elio may have closed the final inch between their lips, but the intention and the invitation all came from Oliver.  And Oliver should have known better.  He meant it when he said he wants to be good.  He reminds himself of all the reasons why this is not good, reasons he's been thinking about for weeks now, reasons that haven’t changed.

Elio knows what he wants, and he’s made it clear to Oliver.  It might not be such a bad idea to give in- it might even make things easier between them.  But while giving in to their physical wants would be simple, the emotional wants are so much more complicated, something that Oliver doesn’t even understand himself yet.  He knows he feels… _things_ … for Elio.  Complicated, frightening, wonderful things.  But does Elio _feel_ the same?  That's a different question.  Although he’s made it clear that he _wants_ , wanting is not the same as feeling.

And what Elio wants?  Oliver is worried about how Elio’s going to feel about this if they let things go any further, because does he truly know what, exactly, it is that he’s asking for?  What it could mean for him, for who he is, for how he feels about himself?  These are question that have plagued Oliver for years now, and he still hasn’t managed to answer them to his satisfaction.  Whatever Oliver is- and he’s still not sure _what_ he is, exactly- is a difficult thing to be. 

Still more questions flood his mind.  Things are different now, but if they could go back to the way things were before- would Oliver want to go there?  He tells himself he doesn’t know, but he does.  He tries to convince himself that the answer isn’t what he knows, deep down, it is.  He hates himself for feeling this way, because it’s selfish, because the good thing to want would be to go back in time, to change things, to be stronger and not give in, to bury what he feels for Elio and go home in two weeks and let it die.

Not that it matters, really, because even if he was good, and wanted to do those things, he couldn’t.  What’s done is done.  All the same, he wishes he could make himself believe that he would do it if he could.

Oliver's not sure whether it was the kiss or Elio's confession that did it, but his resolve and his good intentions are shredded to tatters, frayed at the edges and fragile, liable to crumble into dust at the slightest touch.

As for what, exactly, he feels for Elio?  He pushes down the urge to put a name to it.  He’s definitely not putting a name to it.  Absolutely not. 

* * *

As dinner time approaches, Oliver goes back into town to collect the work his translator has rushed to complete today.  He’s missed a day’s work, but he can make up some of the lost time by sitting and spending the evening looking over his manuscript.  The scorching day is turning into a balmy evening, so he sits in the square with a beer and a cigarette, reading through his pages, scribbling notes in the margins and exchanging a few words with acquaintances who pass by.  As darkness falls he finds himself joining some friends for food and conversation and more beers, until Oliver decides it's late enough that it’s safe to head home, because Elio will almost certainly be in bed.

Elio is in bed.  Or _on_ his bed, at least.  The door between the bathroom and his bedroom is open, and a glance through the door shows that although he's on bed, he's still wearing his jeans.  Oliver can’t see his face but he’s either still awake, or he's fallen asleep with his clothes on.  Oliver closes the door, relieved that he hasn't had to encounter Elio tonight, relieved that he hasn't had to confront Elio.  Or confront himself. 

Not yet.

* * *

Oliver manages to successfully avoid Elio for almost all of the next day.  It's for the best if he keeps his distance for a while.  It will make things easier for both of them.  Elio doesn't seem to want to speak to him either.  Even after just a single day Oliver misses him more than he thought he would, misses their friendship and conversation and the ease of being in each other’s company.  He hopes that after a few days things between them will settle down back to where they were before, or almost.  Of course there will probably be some awkwardness between them, that's almost inevitable, but hopefully things will be bearable, at least, for the rest of his stay.  Hopefully they will part as good friends, which is, first and foremost, what they are.

The mix-up with his pages means that, despite his efforts yesterday evening, Oliver still has a lot of work to catch up on today.  It's a cooler day, and cloudy, so everyone is indoors.  Oliver sets up his papers on the desk in his room, _Elio's room_ , and sets to work, trying not to be distracted by Elio’s books and Elio’s things and the fact that Elio might be right there, just on the other side of the door.  It's becoming increasingly important that he finishes his book, since it's less than two weeks until he goes back home.  He's been putting off the trip he needs to take to Bergamo, to do some research.  He should talk to the professor about it, because it might be a good idea to go there soon.  It would put some distance between himself and Elio before his last week in Italy, and give them both some time and space to think.  Although honestly?  Oliver has already done so much thinking, and he’s getting sick of being stuck inside his own head with his thoughts spiralling everywhere but going nowhere.  There’s no need to think about it anymore, because he's already decided that nothing is going to happen between him and Elio.  Yes, he may have slipped up, but that's all it was- a slip up, a single moment of weakness. 

So Oliver keeps his head down and works all day.  When dinner time comes, Elio isn't there, which is unusual.  Oliver wants to know if he’s alright, but he’s not going to ask about him, he really isn't.  Annella saves him the trouble of thinking about it by telling him that Elio has gone out with Marzia.

Although Oliver feels a pang of jealousy, his main feeling is genuinely _relief_.  Because although it makes him feel sad, Oliver hopes that Elio is over him.  Or over the idea of him, which is perhaps all he ever wanted in the first place.  Maybe for Elio, the kiss did make things _better now._ Maybe things are better for Elio because he's tried out kissing a man- any man, or Oliver in particular, or both, it doesn’t really matter- and decided it's not for him.  Which is fine.  More than fine- it’s good, actually.  It’s something that will make Elio's life much easier.  Now Elio can go back to leading a normal life, and Oliver's happy about that, even though he can't quite squash down the feeling of disappointment.

He wishes they could talk, though.  He feels as though they _should_ talk, like this is something important for both of them.  If he's completely honest, they should have talked weeks ago, as soon as it became apparent that there were feelings between them that went beyond friendship.  Right now, though, Elio seems to be avoiding him, and Oliver knows better than to try to force a conversation when Elio doesn't want to talk.  Besides, it’s probably better this way.

Oliver goes out again after dinner.  A part of him hopes he might bump into Elio in town, but there's no sign of him.  Oliver stays out late playing poker before eventually heading home.  Elio's still not back.  It's not like him to stay out so late.  Oliver intends to wait up to listen for Elio, and maybe, _just maybe_ , to suggest they talk.  To break the tension between them, to start the process of getting back to being friends.  Then it occurs to him that Elio might not come home alone, and suddenly the need to stay awake is more urgent, because he needs to _know_.

But he’s tired and a little drunk- he closes his eyes for a moment and is soon fast asleep, still fully dressed, shoes and all.

* * *

There’s a note, the next morning.  Under his door.  “I can’t stand the silence.  I need to speak to you.”  Oliver rolls his eyes at Elio's taste for melodrama.  _Grow up, Elio_.  I know things are a little awkward right now but we're friends, aren't we?  I live in the same house as you.  I sleep in the room next door.  We sit side-by-side for almost every meal.  We share a bathroom.  For _weeks_ we’ve spent most of our time together, almost every day.  If you want to talk to me, just go ahead and do it.  There's no need to make a big deal about it. 

Oliver knows what this note really means.  It’s not a request to talk, not really, though that’s what they should do.  It’s exactly what they should do, in fact.  But this note has nothing to do with talking.  It's a request for something else, for a continuation of what they started the other day, for a return to an intimacy that goes beyond words.  They’ve never been good at words, the two of them, not when it comes to the important things.  Finding the right words never really felt necessary.

Oliver smiles to himself as he thinks of the perfect, suitably dramatic reply.  What could be more fitting than "I'll see you at midnight"?  He leaves it on Elio's desk before going downstairs for breakfast.

Maybe at midnight, he tells himself, they’ll finally have that long-overdue talk about the things that matter.

But he knows they won’t.

* * *

Oliver doesn't see much of Elio today.  The professor has, unusually, quite a lot of work for him to do, cataloguing slides of the statues he's been studying.  It takes all morning, and the lunch that follows is uncharacteristically quiet, with no guests, just the family. 

At the end of lunch he can't resist doing something to nudge Elio’s thoughts back to the note.  Or maybe he was already thinking about it, but that doesn’t matter.  When he grabs Elio's wrist, there's _something_ , a look, a spark- just a small one- but enough to confirm that Elio got Oliver's note.  Oliver feels a moment of slight panic, because Elio's wrist is so slender, and he feels so fragile, so delicate, breakable in Oliver's hand. 

 _Don't let me hurt you_ _._

_What on earth am I doing?_

* * *

 That afternoon, Oliver indulges in his tried and tested coping mechanism: distraction.  He tells Mafalda he won’t be back for dinner, because sitting by Elio at lunch, trying not to think about what they’re about to do, was difficult enough- without suffering through that at dinner as well.  A drink is what he needs, and a drink soon becomes two and then three, over a few hands of poker.  After last night's late night, several of the men are keen to recoup their losses, which they do, because Oliver can’t focus on the game, and he loses more often than he wins.  Ironically he’s distracted by thoughts of Elio, even though he's supposed to be using the game and the company and the alcohol to distract himself _from_ Elio. 

Eventually Oliver decides to cut his losses and hunt down his friends.  If Elio is with them, then so be it.  He’ll have to live with that.  Luckily he soon finds them, down by the river, and there’s no sign of Elio.  Oliver swims and lies in the sun, fending off the increasingly half-hearted advances of Chiara.  As the afternoon sun starts to cool, they head back into town for food and drinks and conversation.  Marzia joins them during dinner, sitting at the corner of a table with some of the other girls, talking rapidly in hushed tones.  Oliver doesn't speak more than a smattering of French, but of course he recognises Elio's name when he hears it.  Marzia shoots him occasional looks.  The girls’ conversation needs no particular language- it's something universal, and while Oliver feels a twist of jealousy, there’s also a feeling of relief again.  This is a good development, because Marzia is good for Elio in a way that Oliver never can be.  This is what Elio should be doing- being with girls, with a girlfriend who he can bring home for dinner, whose hand he can hold while they stroll through town, who he can kiss in the sunshine without anyone caring, without worrying that someone might see. 

Having a secret midnight liaison with a man, with Oliver, is definitely not something Elio should be doing.

* * *

It's late when Oliver gets back to the house.  He doesn't pause to greet the dinner guests, who are absorbed in Elio's piano playing.  Their closeness, two men, completely open and unashamed, only makes Oliver feel his own inadequacies all the more, the fact that he could never have the courage to be so open about feeling that way.  Instead he goes upstairs.  It only takes a minute or so of pacing his room anxiously for him to decide that he can't wait here.  If Elio's going to come and meet him, he'll find him just as easily on the balcony as in his room- and also, Oliver will look less desperate there.  So that's where Oliver goes, the balcony at the front of the house.  He lights a cigarette to keep him calm while he waits.  It gives him something to do, because honestly?  He's not sure whether Elio will turn up.  Oliver's not even sure if he wants him to, or if there will be a strange relief if he stays away.  Relief because Oliver won't have to make a decision.  Relief because it will save him the guilt he'll feel about what he's going to do and who he's going to do it with. 

But then, not long after Oliver lights a second cigarette, Elio is here. Right here, right next to him, leaning on the balcony beside him.  Oliver honestly hadn’t quite believed he would come, but he’s here.  Next to Oliver, but still so far away.  Oliver's so glad he's there, and he tells him that, but his words barely come out, because he’s suddenly so relieved and happy and terrified.  Oliver invited him, but he didn’t really believe he’d come.

This time, Oliver bridges the gap between them.  Still holding his cigarette he reaches over, tentatively, and brushes the back of Elio's hand with his thumb. 

 _I'm nervous._ It's the first words Elio's said to him, really, in more than two days.  Oliver is nervous too, because he can no longer deny to himself how much he wants this, and how much it means. 

They really should talk.

Maybe later, because Oliver smiles, reaches out and tilts Elio's face towards his own, wanting to lean in and kiss him.

But Elio has other ideas.  The fact that Elio clearly doesn't want to talk should set alarm bells ringing, but Oliver's too far gone to care. 

Elio turns his back on Oliver and leads the way to the bedroom.

* * *

 Oliver's slept with enough people that he should know what he's doing, and he does, of course he does, but he's still nervous and not sure how or where to start.  There seems to be so much at stake here.  And Oliver's pretty sure he's never been anyone's, or at least any _man's_ , first time before, which makes him feel as though he’s under a strange sort of pressure. 

Elio doesn’t seem to know where to start either, but suddenly he’s in Oliver’s arms, hands on his body and in his hair.  Oliver kisses his neck, his face, behind his ear, hands tangled in his hair while Elio melts under his lips, already lost and fallen apart. 

But Oliver teases, breaks away, slows things down, because he’s not quite ready yet.  He needs something more, needs to hear Elio confirm in _actual words_ this time that this is what he wants.  So they sit side-by-side on the edge of the bed, just their feet touching.  Every breath Elio takes is a quiet almost-moan. 

_Does this make you happy?_

And at last, they're kissing, and it's different to the last time because now they've both made a decision, answered a question they were unsure about just a few days ago.  Oliver has Elio on his lap, and he's finally, finally allowed to touch.  He runs his hands up Elio's slender back, grasping him _hard_ , because he just can’t get close enough, cannot fit the whole of Elio’s body in his hands.  It isn’t enough, he needs Elio’s skin against his own.  Elio wants the same thing, clothes are coming off, and there’s Elio, looking up at his from the bed, eyes dark and full of want.

* * *

If Oliver's completely honest, he'd have to say that as far as sex goes, it’s not great, really.  Oliver's certainly had better.  They're both too nervous, for one thing.  Elio has lost himself in the moment, but all the same he’s tense, unable to quite let go and relax.  There’s a hesitancy to Elio’s actions, as though doesn't know quite what to do, or exactly what to expect.  His inexperience shows- he seems anxious about doing something wrong, unsure about where to kiss or what to do with his hands.  And Oliver is nervous too, so, so nervous, just because this is _Elio_ , and it means so much, and he feels so much. 

So it's a little awkward, a little fumbling on both their parts. 

It blows Oliver's mind all the same.

* * *

Oliver means to hold a piece of himself back, because that’s just what he usually does, what he’s always done with his past lovers.  He’s never felt any urge to do otherwise.  But now?  He finds himself calling Elio by his own name, just because it feels like the right thing to do, feels inevitable somehow- and that changes something, changes _everything_.  His own voice is full of hushed reverence, Elio’s playful and light.  Oliver gives himself entirely and takes the whole of Elio in return.

It sounds like a hopeless cliché- because it is, really- but something clicks into place that night.  A door slams shut somewhere deep in his soul.  There’s no getting out of this, no going back.  Oliver doesn’t want to go back.   Somewhere in his head a voice says _you’re mine now_. 

It’s only later that he realises that that wasn’t what it said at all.  It was saying _you’re me now_. 

Stupid Oliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it was nearly 4 weeks. Sorry! If it's any consolation, this was supposed to be half of a chapter but I ended up splitting it. So the next one, the bit that was going to be the second half of this, really is more-or-less done.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	5. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing yourself is hard.

Oliver wakes first, to find Elio breathing softly and deeply with his head pillowed on Oliver’s shoulder.  Oliver watches him sleep for a moment.  He wants to comb his fingers through Elio’s hair, but Elio looks so peaceful and Oliver is so happy just watching him that he doesn’t want to risk waking him.  He's so delicate, so pale, still, even after the spending the whole summer outdoors in nothing but a pair of shorts.  Perhaps it’s just the lingering endorphins from their activities last night, but Oliver feels relaxed and content and _happy_.

For a while, at least.  But it doesn’t last, because worries soon start to creep in.  Where do they stand now?  What’s going to happen next?  Will Elio feel the same as him about what happened last night?  Oliver is not sure he’s ready to find out the answers to these questions.

Oliver's arm is wrapped around Elio's neck, and his fingers trail lightly, absentmindedly, on Elio's chest, when Elio stirs.  Beautiful and sleepy, hair in disarray.  Elio swallows and blinks while his brain takes a few seconds to catch up with reality, and it's obvious that he's confused to find himself in this room and this bed, to find Oliver next to him, and to feel the unfamiliar weight of Oliver’s arm draped over his shoulder.  He turns to Oliver.  Oliver starts to smile at him, and that’s when things go wrong.

Elio doesn’t smile back.  Instead he turns away from Oliver and shrugs his hand away.  Then, even worse- Oliver reaches, gently, to touch the curl of hair at the nape of Elio’s neck, and Elio _flinches_ away from his touch.  It drags Oliver reluctantly back to the memory of a moment weeks before, when he touched Elio’s shoulder during the volleyball game.  Maybe they haven’t come so far since then after all.

He gets the sinking feeling that, had Elio woken up first, he’d probably be long gone, sneaking out and hiding himself away somewhere- so at least Oliver can be thankful for the fact that he’s still here.  There’s that at least.  But he’s unhappy, and when he suggests they go for a swim, he gives Oliver the most frighteningly fake smile imaginable.  Oliver doesn’t know what to say to make this right.  _I can’t lose you now.  Please.  Don’t do this to me.  Not now_.  Which doesn’t make any sense, because he’s knows he’s going to lose Elio in less than two weeks.  He’s prepared for that, resigned to it.  But.  _But_.  Just not right now. 

Elio is pulling away, retreating to a place in his head where Oliver can’t follow.  Oliver is worried and... afraid.  Because his defences are gone, dismantled brick by brick by Elio over the last month, until, last night, there was nothing left apart from himself.  Now he’s naked and raw, he’s let Elio in completely in a way he’s never done with anyone else, but Elio won't even look at him.

Oliver is broken.

* * *

 Swimming is a good idea of Elio’s.  It’s one of Oliver’s favourite activities for times when he wants to clear his head, and it occurs to him that maybe Elio chose it for this same reason, and not because he couldn’t stand to be around Oliver any more.  If Elio had wanted to be alone, had not wanted Oliver around, he could have gone back to his own room and closed the door.  He could have gone to take a shower, or gone for a swim alone, or any number of things.

But by suggesting a swim together, Elio is telling Oliver that while a part of him wants to be alone, there’s another part that wants to keep Oliver close by. 

Oliver can sympathise with this feeling- a rational part of his brain tells him to give Elio space, that this reaction is normal.  When he woke, Elio looked a little dismayed, but mostly shocked.  Which makes sense, because Elio’s probably never had a _morning after_ before, never woken up next to a lover in the cold light of morning and had to deal with the sometimes awkward question of _what happens next_?  And Oliver remembers how he felt after his first time with a man- confused, worried, and a little disgusted with what he'd done.

 But he can't get over the fact that this is Elio, that they are not near-strangers to one another, or mere acquaintances, in the way that most of the other men Oliver has slept with were.  It’s Elio, who has become his best friend, the person who knows him better than anyone else does or ever has.  Feelings bubble to the surface, feelings Oliver can’t work out, things about himself he's never let himself think too much about.  

Until recently.  He’s thought about these things a lot lately, although he’s still as confused as ever.  Elio still has time to work things out about himself, but Oliver's at a different stage in his life.  It's really past time he figured himself out and made some decisions about his life and his future.  For one thing there's Emma, and he knows that she’s hoping that he'll come back from Italy and be ready to make a commitment.  Oliver has no idea how he feels about that.

He always says he knows himself and that's true, but maybe not in the ways people expect.  I know myself, and I know I'm not brave enough to confront this part of myself.  I know myself, and sometimes I'm scared of who I am.  I know myself, and sometimes I wish I didn’t, because sometimes I don't like myself.  Sometimes I wish I was someone different, someone better.

Knowing yourself is hard.

And Elio is seventeen. Oliver thinks that Elio would be the first to admit that maybe he doesn't know himself.  As much as he hopes it isn’t true, maybe Oliver needs to accept that this was, that _he_ was, for the most part, an experiment of sorts for Elio, and that maybe Elio will decide that he’s not interested in men after all.  Or just not interested in Oliver.  Or maybe he liked the sex- Oliver’s pretty confident that he enjoyed that, at least- but doesn’t want the feelings that go with it.  Or perhaps he doesn’t have any feelings.

But Oliver’s sure that's not what he saw last night.  Elio's face, more open than he'd ever seen it before, his eyes betraying the feelings he doesn't put words to, perhaps doesn’t even know himself.  Elio, calling Oliver by his own name.  Oliver felt certain, in that moment, that Elio feels the same way as he does.  Despite his doubts, he still thinks that that might be true, but perhaps they both need a little time.

So when they’re done swimming, Oliver is prepared to give Elio some space.  After Elio’s decidedly unconvincing assurance that he’s not going to hold what happened last night against him, Oliver honestly needs some space too, to process everything that’s happened.  And of course Elio has a lot to think about, even more than Oliver does himself. 

They don’t say a word when they get back to the house, each retreating to their respective rooms.  And that hurts again, because Oliver had taken comfort in the fact that Elio had wanted to swim together, had wanted to keep him close by- but now Elio has decided that he wants to be alone after all.  Elio looks so small, drowning in a jumper that's several sizes too big for him, and so confused.  His expression says _I honestly don't know what to do right now_ , and Oliver wants to slide his arms around him and pull him close, to rest his chin on top of Elio's head and say _I know, me too, I'm sorry._

But he doesn't.  And while Oliver is prepared to give Elio space, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want confirmation of what’s happened, what’s hopefully still happening between them.  He needs to know if Elio is still interested.  So he opens Elio’s door and falls to his knees.  Elio, soft then hardening on his tongue, blinking in shock as Oliver closes the door after barely a few seconds.  Oliver can’t help but smile.  Mostly because he’s shocked himself- _did I just do that?  Did I really just do that and then close the door in his face?_

And of course, he's smiling because Elio’s reaction was definitely a _later_ and not a _no._

* * *

Oliver heads straight for the bathroom and takes a long, hot shower before going downstairs for breakfast.  He's almost finished when Elio appears, hiding behind his sunglasses.  Oliver is not in the mood to make awkward conversation, and he's painfully aware that both himself and Elio desperately need some time and space, so he agrees to work with the professor that afternoon, and cycles straight to town.

He doesn't expect Elio to follow him, arriving merely a few minutes later.  To have arrived here so quickly he must have abandoned his breakfast almost as soon as Oliver had left.

And here he is.

The sunglasses come off and this is Elio, vulnerable in a way he wasn't the night before- vulnerable and unsure and so, so young, his expression so much more naked now than his body was last night.  Is he unsure about Oliver?  Or about out what they did?  Or about himself?  Oliver still has no idea, and a not-insignificant part of him wants to say _what's wrong?  Talk to me, Elio.  How can I make this better?_   But he daren't say it, because he doesn't think Elio wants to talk about that at the moment.  Maybe there will never be a time to talk about that. 

But right now it doesn't much matter, because the look on Elio's face, the openness, the softness, makes Oliver want to sag with relief, lean against the wall and let his knees buckle so that he falls to the floor.  Because Elio's expression now is the physical manifestation of the feelings and questions and insecurities that Oliver has had all morning.  Oliver is not the only one who feels this thing between them.  He's not the only one who's worried about what happens next, and where they stand now.  Last night meant something to Elio, too. 

Elio turns to leave, obviously convinced he's not wanted here, that he shouldn't have come and is only embarrassing himself with his neediness.  Oliver wants to say _stay, talk to me, I want to be with you, too, so much-_ but that's just not the way they communicate, not the way they work- so Oliver says something else.  Raw and honest like nothing he's told Elio before- _do you have any idea how happy I am that we slept together_?  There's a challenge in Elio's _I don't know_ \- an implied _why don't you tell me?_

Of course Elio doesn't know. There's no way he can know what this means to Oliver.  Oliver isn't even close to knowing himself, because last night has only left him more confused than ever about what this is to him.  All he knows right now is that this thing, this feeling, is somehow even bigger than before, more solid.  Oliver's terrified, actually, because in his experience sleeping with someone is as good a way as any to sweep away any doubts about what he does or doesn't feel about them.  But with Elio?  There was never any doubt about his feelings about Elio, but he expected _something_ , somehow to be clearer, to make sense. He just can't work it out yet. 

This is not what was supposed to happen.  

This is probably fun and games for Elio- Elio, seventeen, with no pressure to have a grown-up life and a career and a house and a wife and children, because that's what twenty-four year old people are supposed to do.  The weight of these expectations makes Oliver feel old, yet at the same time he's never felt so young and afraid. 

And then- fingers tangled, electric, they round the corner to a more secluded spot where Oliver can look at Elio- really look at him- and although they can't kiss, instinct makes Oliver take a look around to check for bystanders, before he leans in.  Close, close enough to for Oliver to taste apricots and cigarettes on his breath, to hear the uncertainty in the way he breathes.  Elio mirrors him, leans in a little closer and up on his tiptoes to almost even out their heights, before whispering "fuck me, Elio".  Oliver inhales, harsh in the near-silence of the deserted street, and breathes out his own name.  

It's fortunate that Elio's teasing _we'll save it for later_ breaks the tension, because otherwise Oliver might just have kissed him anyway, heedless of the street or the daylight or the passers by.  Half a smile, half a step back and Oliver regains his composure a little.  It's easier now that the scent of Elio isn't fogging his brain quite so intensely.  

"I... have to do some work here this morning- I really have to sort these pages.  Then I have to go over some stuff with your dad this afternoon.  I'm not sure how long it'll take, and-"

"It's okay.  I should get back anyway.  I just wanted to see you."  Elio meets Oliver's eyes, sees something there, and nods slightly.  "Later!"  He turns to leave with a wicked glint in his eyes.  It's a tease and a promise, and Oliver huffs out a short laugh.

"Okay.  Later."  This is the point at which they're supposed to kiss, even if it's nothing more than a brush of their lips.  But, since they can't, a brush of their fingertips will suffice, a promise of _later_.

* * *

Elio’s not in his room, or Oliver’s room.  He’s not outside, or playing the piano, or… anywhere.  Maybe he’s gone out.  Maybe he’s changed his mind after all, has gone back to Marzia. 

Annella sees him looking lost and knows exactly what he’s looking for.  “I think he’s upstairs.  In the attic.”  She smiles and points to a door Oliver’s never noticed before. 

She’s right.  Elio’s lying on a mattress in the dusty attic, fast asleep, flat on his back.  Oliver strips off his own shirt and sits on the edge of the mattress, trailing kisses down Elio’s bare chest as Elio wakes up.  His skin is sticky and there’s a sweet, almost cloying smell, something Oliver can’t quite put a name to.  When he unzips Elio’s shorts, takes him in his mouth, it soon becomes apparent that it’s peach juice, sickly sweet from ripeness.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Oliver’s tone is playful as he teases, but his intention is deadly serious, because he _wants_ to do this, wants it, _has to_ do this. He doesn’t care if it’s sick- delights in that, in fact, in the need to take this part of Elio inside him, both the physical, literal evidence of Elio in itself and the metaphorical acceptance implied by his delighting in it.

But Elio has other ideas.  He doesn’t seem to share in this, fights Oliver in his attempts to taste, to consume, until suddenly he collapses, limp, arms around Oliver’s waist, and Oliver realises that Elio is crying.  Huge, wrenching sobs that cut deep under Oliver’s skin.

So Oliver holds him, soothes him as though he’s a child, hands gentle in his hair, on his back, his shoulders. 

_I don’t want you to go._

That, that exact moment, is when Oliver knows.  Everything suddenly crystallises into complete clarity, because right now they understand one another.  Because Oliver has been overthinking this.  He’s spent so long worrying about Elio, and worrying about himself, that he didn’t stop to notice that this is something about both of them, together.  That is has to be like that- there’s no other way this can work. 

They kiss, but this kiss is different.  The same emotion Oliver saw in Elio’s tears is bleeding into this kiss.  Oliver knows, _knows_ , now, as they kiss and Oliver pushes Elio back down on to the mattress, that Elio feels the same.  Something ties them together, and it’s more than the peach thing.  Oliver lacks the ability to describe what it is, because the one word he thinks of using is completely inadequate, doesn’t even come close to describing it. 

Because this feeling is more than that, it's unnameable, undefinable.  And if you can't define its boundaries, how can you give it a name?

 

When Oliver wakes up, he's aware that he’s more disgusting than he’s ever been in his life.  He’s grimy from the dust in the attic, and covered with dried sweat and tears, horribly sticky with peach juice and come.  His mouth is dry and tastes of- he's not even going to think about what it is, actually, but it's thoroughly unpleasant.  He should go and shower and brush his teeth as a matter of urgency. 

But somehow he doesn’t want to move from this spot, never wants this moment to end- because things are different this time, different to how they were when they woke this morning.  Elio has woken first- or maybe he never slept in the first place.  He's gazing toward the light coming through the window, fingers absently playing with Oliver's hair. It's starting to get dark, but dust motes still dance in the low light of the setting sun streaming through the windows.  Elio feels Oliver stir, and turns to face him with a shy smile.  Oliver smiles back and gives a small sigh of contentment.  Elio echoes Oliver’s own words from last night.  "Does this make you happy?"  And it does, it does, but Oliver doesn't need to say the words that they both know are true.  So Oliver echoes some of Elio's words, from the morning of their first kiss. "Mmm.  It's not bad.  It's not bad."

Elio's face cracks open into one of his big, beautiful smiles.

* * *

They go their separate ways briefly, to shower and dress, before meeting at dinner.  There’s a peace between them now, a return to the easy companionship they’d had before everything happened.  There are guests for dinner, as usual, but it’s a peaceful affair with wine and conversation flowing freely.  He and Elio linger a little, enjoying the warm evening and good company and a little more wine, fingers and toes brushing intermittently beneath the table.  It’s calm and relaxed- the urgency and tension, for now, are gone. 

But eventually they make their excuses and the moment they reach the bedroom, Elio's kissing him and his hands are everywhere, all uncertainty gone.  Oliver knows what he wants tonight, and he asks for something he's never asked anyone for before. _Fuck me, Oliver_.  Elio's eyes widen a little.  Oliver nods.

It’s not that he’s been averse to the idea of doing this, before- it’s just that people have made assumptions about him and about what he likes, and he hasn’t wanted it enough, with anyone else, to correct them.  He’s glad he didn’t now, glad that Elio will be the first. 

They take their time, tonight, and everything is slow and tender.  Elio trails kisses down Oliver’s chest as he unbuttons his shirt with agonising slowness.  He’s a strange, glorious combination of both confidence and uncertainty- despite Oliver’s need to offer words of guidance from time to time, Elio is taking charge and Oliver is surprised by just how much he likes that.  It’s something else that nobody has ever offered him before, but Elio somehow knows that Oliver needs this, and gives it without question.  Oliver feels as though this should make him feel even more defenceless, but when they made love last night he was completely open to Elio, and he can't possibly be any more exposed tonight. 

“I've never done this before," Oliver confesses, scarcely more than a whisper.  He doesn’t know why, but the admission makes him feel infinitely more vulnerable than the act itself. 

Elio nods.  "Okay."  

And then- Elio inside him is intense, more intense that Oliver expected, more _everything_ than Oliver expected.  A distant part of his brain tells him that there’s some pain, but he doesn’t feel it.  It feels sort of weird, so strange, until it doesn’t- and he’s honestly not sure if he likes it, until he does, and then he _really_ does.    

Elio is so slow and careful, looking down at Oliver in awe.  Oliver meets his gaze and reaches up to draw him into a kiss, and tells him, "Oliver. _Oliver_ , I'm not going to break.  I don't need you to be gentle with me."  Elio brushes Oliver's cheek with his thumb, and pushes a stray strand of hair behind Oliver's ear.

"Yes, you do.  That's exactly what you need." 

They both know it's not his body Elio’s talking about. 

And it’s true.  That is what he needs, what he's always needed.  He just never knew it before.

 

Oliver wakes to the feel of Elio's lips pressed to the back of his neck, Elio's hand on his chest.  He rolls over, pulls his head back a little to bring Elio's face into focus, and Elio smiles, huge and genuine, lighting up the darkness of the room. 

A feeling washes over Oliver, and it takes him a moment to realise that it's happiness. 

 

But Elio was right.  Because despite what Oliver said, Elio is going to break him, just by existing, because there’s no other way this can end.  This ends with Oliver, broken. 

He flies back to New York in nine days' time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would have this chapter done quicker, and I sort of did, but the next one? We'll see. No promises. Realistically, we're probably looking at around the 25th of March, maybe? I'll let you know how things are going on my tumblr.  
> This is a bit of a weird chapter, maybe? So let me know what you think!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	6. Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no escaping the fact that things are ending, even though they’ve only just begun. They have so little time, a paltry handful of days. The very surroundings remind Oliver of this, relentlessly, because fall is fast approaching, and there’s a chill in the air, just sometimes, a harsh reminder of the fact that this summer, and everything that’s happened in it, is almost over.

There’s no escaping the fact that things are ending, even though they’ve only just begun.  They have so little time, a paltry handful of days.  The very surroundings remind Oliver of this, relentlessly, because fall is fast approaching, and there’s a chill in the air, just sometimes, a harsh reminder of the fact that this summer, and everything that’s happened in it, is almost over. 

Oliver pushes those thoughts away, and concentrates on the _now_.  On the things that have happened this summer, the things which are still happening.  It’s not over yet.

His last week at the Perlmans' is idyllic.  He and Elio quickly fall in to a new version of their old routine.  Meals, of course, as usual- all outdoors when the weather permits, which is still most of the time, despite the advancing season.  And in between there’s music, reading or writing, trips to town, swimming, sunbathing… Oliver wants all of it to last forever.

And the new, different parts of this routine?  Waking every morning with Elio, side-by-side or curled around each other or tangled together, naked, covered by just a sheet.  Lazy good-morning kisses which usually turn into more, into hands and mouths everywhere, into both of them breathless and sweaty and sticky.

The quiet time after lunch used to be an opportunity for Oliver to get to grips with his manuscript, or just to doze in the sunshine.  But now?  He and Elio go back to the bedroom every afternoon and make love, or sometimes just kiss for what feels like hours, and nap, and wake up and do it all over again.  Elio complains that the sun is too bright for sleeping, but Oliver refuses to close the shutters, because he’s determined to savour every single scrap of the sights and smells and sounds of summer in these heavenly afternoons.  Elio is golden and radiant, napping naked in the sunlight. 

Oliver expected that by this point in the season, dinners would be quieter, as friends and neighbours start to drift back to their city homes.   But in fact, mealtimes are becoming even busier than ever before, with even more guests as everyone tries to make the most of the last days of summer.  They're more enjoyable now that the strange tension between himself and Elio has gone, has turned into something else.  They both say more, they laugh more, and let their feet, or sometimes their fingers, tangle together beneath the table.  One evening, when a large group of noisy relatives are there for dinner, Elio slips a hand down the back of Oliver's shorts during dessert.

They don't linger at the table chatting after dinner that night.  When they reach the bedroom, Oliver discovers that, as he always suspected, those jean shorts don't need to be unbuttoned.  One little tug and they fall right to the floor.

* * *

Oliver remembers the general shape of his last days in Italy, but few of the details- similar as they are, blending into one.  The nights, however?  They will be seared forever into his consciousness.

Oliver’s had plenty of sex with plenty of people, men and women both, but it’s never been like this.  Elio’s intensity is visceral, at once both endearing and slightly frightening.  Elio’s tongue and teeth and fingers seem to be everywhere, all at once, and Oliver is helpless to do anything but lie back and try to remember to breathe.  It’s a contradiction- somehow both a complete surprise and at the same time exactly what Oliver expected. 

Elio fucks like every night is his last night on Earth.  In bed he’s a force of nature, a wildfire, blazing hot, uncontrollable, consuming everything.  And Oliver wants to be consumed, until there’s nothing left of him except more _want_ , always more, with no end.  If his spot on the grass by the pool is his heaven, then Elio is the fires of hell, and Oliver hopes he’s done enough terrible things in his life to earn the right to burn for eternity.

That’s not to say it’s fast and rough and desperate, although sometimes it is.  But usually it’s tender and gentle and sometimes almost impossibly slow, yet at the same time there’s a wild abandon to everything Elio does.  Sometimes Oliver wants to say _slow down, it’s okay, don’t panic, we have time_ , but there’s no point because they’d both know that’s not true.  The best he can do is to calm him, to soothe him, and bring him down from a raging, frantic boil to a long simmer.  But Elio’s chasing a high, desperately- though it’s not the inevitable, physical one, it’s something else.  Oliver feels it, knows it, even though he doesn’t quite have the words for it. 

_You’re me now._

Elio’s enthusiasm more than makes up for his inexperience, and inexperience soon becomes competence and then confidence as they learn each other’s bodies.  Though before that happens, there are some insecurities to dispel.  It’s on their third night together when Elio’s self-doubt makes itself known- when, lying on the bed and already shirtless, he meets Oliver’s eyes, determination burning bright.  “Tell me what things you like.  Show me what you want me to do, show me how to...” he shakes his head a little, shrugs his shoulders.

“I like all the things you do, everything we do together.”

“I know, but- you’ve done this before. You know how to… I don’t know, I, um, I don’t know what I’m trying to say…” Elio scrubs a hand through his curls as his voice trails off, uncertain now. 

“Okay, okay.  Well, I like the things you do with your fingers, with your hands.  The things-“ Oliver is pressing kisses down Elio’s neck in between his words, “you do with your tongue.  That noise you always make when I do this-“ Oliver’s mouth at the corner of Elio’s jaw now, laughing gently as Elio makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.  “The way you came so fast the first time you fucked me-“

Elio pushes himself up a little on his elbows, insecurity flashing across his face.  “That’s not a good thing-“

Oliver ignores him.  “…and then those things you did to me for, ten minutes, maybe?”  Oliver’s mouth on Elio’s collarbone, now, “…until you wanted to do it all again, and you did, and it all felt _amazing_.  And I know it’s probably just because you’re seventeen, but it… it was like you just couldn’t get enough of me, and it made me feel…  I don’t even know.  I don't think anybody's ever wanted me the way you do.  And god, the way you looked at me, and then you-“

Elio laughs in between his quiet moans, one of his light, breathy laughs, “That’s not what I meant.  Not… what things we already do, that you like, things we did, I mean… anything else you like.”

“Nothing.  Nothing, just you, just this, everything, just-“ Elio pulls his hair, hard, bringing Oliver’s head up to press their lips together.  The kiss is short lived because Oliver simply _has_ to tell him, “ _God_ , Elio, do that, fuck, _I_ _love that_ , do that again-“

And Elio does, and Oliver forgets everything else.

 

They’re sitting at breakfast the next morning when the professor puts down his newspaper.  “Oliver?”

They both look up at him, with an almost simultaneous “yes?”

The professor’s eyes go from one to the other, quizzical, looks at Elio as he repeats Oliver’s name.

Elio looks a little flustered.  “Oh, sorry, I thought you said…” his voice trails off and he looks down at his plate, avoiding his father's gaze.

He thought no such thing, of course.  Calling each other by their own names is by no means something they do all the time- it’s saved for moments of passion or, more often, for the quiet intimacy that follows.  But Elio has answered to Oliver’s name scarcely twenty minutes ago, and it was pretty intense, so despite his shower and coffee he’s still not fully back in touch with reality.

“Oliver.”  The professor smiles at him.  “We need to talk about Bergamo.  We can’t keep putting it off for much longer.  If you know when you’re going and what you need, I’ll call my colleague there and see that the papers you need are ready for you to take a look at.”

“Oh.  Yes.  I can have a list ready by this afternoon.  Is that alright?  I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”  It’s Oliver’s turn to be flustered, because he’s been trying to put off thinking about this, trying to think of a way to avoid it.

“No, no, not at all.  It’s no trouble.  This afternoon, then.”

Oliver wants to spend every last possible moment here, but there’s just no way around it- he really does need to go to Bergamo to complete his research.  He’s tried to think of alternatives.  He could ask the university to send him copies of the documents he needs, but it really wouldn’t be feasible, because he won't know exactly what will and won't be useful until he sees it himself.  He’s considered the practicalities of coming back in the winter, to finish the research then (and, maybe, a voice whispers in his head, to see Elio again)- but honestly?  He’s not at all sure he’ll be able to afford it.  And besides- he’s spoken to the professor in Bergamo several times over the course of the summer.  He’s already been given help and advice over the phone.  Given the nature of his field of study, this professor is another valuable contact to have, and since he's promised to visit, it would be rude not to do so.  And perhaps most important of all- this research is urgently needed for the very last bit he has to write.  He has almost nothing else left to do before the manuscript is complete.  If he doesn’t do the research now, he’ll go back to New York with _nothing_ to work on.  He’s worked so hard for this, for so long- he cannot go back with his work incomplete.  He won’t get another chance.  The professor is right- he really can’t put it off any longer.

Elio doesn’t mention the conversation, but he’s quieter than usual as they sit on the edge of the pool that morning, both looking down at their feet tangled together in the cool water.  Oliver wants to hold his hand, but Elio’s parents are sitting right there behind them, soaking up the sun and talking softly. 

The Bergamo issue has brought home the fact that Oliver is leaving.  There’s no escaping it, never has been, but suddenly it’s a _thing_ between them.  Oliver’s not sure whether it’s something they should talk about or ignore. 

So Oliver is a little tentative when he talks to the Professor about it that afternoon.  He doesn’t want to leave any earlier than he absolutely has to.  “You’re going to need to stay for two or three nights, really.  You'll need at least a day in the library, possibly more."  The professor looks up from the journal he's absentmindedly flicking through, and meets Oliver's eyes.  "But you don’t have to go on your own.  Why not take Elio?  I’ll arrange a hotel for the two of you.”  Oliver makes as though to protest at this generosity, but, “No!  No, I won’t take no for an answer.  Go.  You’ll both enjoy it.  You can meet with my colleague, get your research done, maybe do some sightseeing, or even go hiking in the mountains if you have time.  It’s beautiful there at this time of year.”

Oliver is relieved, thrilled to have borrowed just a little bit more time, even though he knows, of course, that it will only put off the inevitable for the smallest bit longer.  What difference will two more days really make, in the context of the rest of the life he will have to live when he leaves?  Yet somehow, here and now, it feels like all the difference in the world.

So the days go by, and they continue to be together, the two of them, all the time.  They have a lot of sex, of course, but it’s not all about that.  Mostly they just _are_ , because somehow it’s enough just to occupy the same space.

They talk a lot, about everything- books and music and movies, and yet none of the things that matter.  They never say _I love_ _you_ , because although those words are the closest Oliver can think of to describe what this thing between them is, the words are both unnecessary for something so blindingly obvious, and at the same time completely inadequate, far too _light_ for this thing between them. 

To exchange those words would be to confine this, confine them, to an expectation of what _love_ means.

* * *

After a few days they’re both utterly exhausted.  And, yes, partly it’s because they stay up late at night, making the most of the time they have left, but it’s more complicated than that.  In Elio's case, it's because no amount of sleep seems to leave him rested.  He’s happy- he smiles and laughs and talks more than ever, but in moments of quiet Oliver can see and almost _hear_ him thinking, constantly and loudly and confused.  It’s as though Elio's brain, or his body, or both, demand sleep as a means of coping, giving him some time to shut off these thoughts and feelings that have nowhere to go and keep threatening to spill over.

And Oliver’s exhausted because he barely sleeps at all.  He can’t bear to spend these precious moments sleeping, when he could be watching Elio.  So that’s what he does, sleeping in snatches but mostly lying awake and looking at Elio.  After they make love Elio inevitably collapses into a deathly sleep, overwhelmed by the weight of the emotions he can’t yet process.  It’s at these moments that he looks young, _so young_ , and so breakable, with his face relaxed and pale in the moonlight or washed out by the afternoon sun.  No amount of staring wakes him, and the brush of Oliver’s lips or fingers along a cheek elicits no more than a murmur in his sleep. 

Oliver memorises Elio’s face, because he knows that memories are all he’ll have when he leaves.  Elio’s lips parted in sleep, his eyelashes, long and dark, fanned over his cheeks.  His hair a mess of curls spilling dark onto the pale cotton of the pillow.  More often than not Elio falls asleep on top of the sheets, and Oliver’s eyes roam over his naked body.  Oliver’s amazed to learn that, in the space of mere days, he’s learned Elio’s body better than he ever knew anyone’s, better than he knows his own.  Elio’s skin, smooth and soft and still paler than you’d expect, given the time he’s spent out in the sun over the last few weeks.  The faint dusting of freckles on his nose.  And beneath his skin, the sharp angles of his bones.  He sleeps curled up on his side, nestled into Oliver or, occasionally, sprawled out flat on his front.  Oliver likes that best, the way his legs seem to stretch on forever.  Oliver pulls a sheet over him when the night breeze through the window turns chilly, then pulls him close and cradles his head when Elio, still sleeping, sighs softly and burrows into his chest.

* * *

Elio worries, still, about being found out.  He’s alleviated his worries about Mafalda, who makes the beds and washes the clothes, by picking up a collection of towels from the never-ending supply kept in a store cupboard, and he throws them straight into the washing machine when they’ve been used.  So many towels are used in this house, for showers and by the pool and for lounging around in the sun, that nobody asks questions. 

But he’s still concerned about being heard.  Oliver has the feeling that, if he felt he could, Elio would be _loud_ in bed.  Really loud.  But they can’t, so Elio, with varying degrees of success, muffles his moans in a pillow or in Oliver’s neck, or chest, or shoulder. 

One night Elio’s doing just that when he _bites_ Oliver, hard, on the shoulder as he comes.  Oliver yelps in surprise and almost jumps off the bed.  “Ow, fuck!  Elio!  That hurts!”

Elio’s still shaking, panting, but his eyes are suddenly wide with concern.  “I’m sorry, god, I’m sorry, I just- are you okay? “

Oliver nods, and laughs quietly.  “Yeah, it’s okay, I’m okay.  It’s fine.”

Elio winces and hisses in a breath between his teeth when he looks at the perfect rows of teeth marks on Oliver’s shoulder.  “That’s going to bruise.  Maybe we should get some ice on it?”

They sneak downstairs in their underwear, Elio leading Oliver by his hand in the dark.  Elio goes to the freezer, then Oliver collapses in a chair in the living room, ice cubes held to the already purple bite mark.  It still hurts.  He’s going to have to wear a shirt, or keep a towel around his shoulders, for the rest of his stay. 

He nods toward the piano.  “Play something?”  The _for me_ goes unspoken.  “Or, I mean, not if it’s going to wake your mom and dad.”

Elio sits at the piano.  “Oh, that’s okay.  They won’t mind.  I come down here to play in the night, sometimes, when I can’t sleep.  What do you want me to play?”

“Anything.”  _Everything.  Just never stop._

Elio’s fingers hover above the keys for a few moments, and Oliver watches the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes deeply while he thinks.  Then he suddenly gets up, leaves the room and comes back with his guitar.  He sits down, closes his eyes and plays.

He starts with the Bach piece he played weeks ago, on the first day Oliver knew, for certain, that they were flirting.  He plays it exactly as he did the first time Oliver heard it.  It’s as magical now as it was then.  Elio opens his eyes and smiles at Oliver.  It’s a little hesitant, a little shy.  They’ve come full circle, and it seems like a lifetime has passed since then and yet no time at all.

Without missing a beat, the piece changes into something else, something Oliver’s never heard before.  It’s wistful and filled with longing, both joyful and sad.  Oliver doesn’t ask what the piece is, though he strongly suspects it may be something all of Elio’s own.  Something about the moment feels too personal for such a question- too much Elio, too much Oliver.

It sounds like he’s telling Oliver he loves him.  _You don’t need to tell me_ , he wants to say.  _I already know_.

* * *

The Perlmans often dine with friends or relatives on Mafalda’s afternoons off.  Elio usually goes with them, and sometimes Oliver too.  But three days before Oliver is due to leave, Elio and Oliver are left alone at the house for the evening.  The house is strangely quiet as they sit in the kitchen, picking at the food Mafalda left for them ready-prepared in the fridge, before clearing up the dishes.  Oliver lifts Elio onto the kitchen table and kisses him, hard, pushing against him until Elio’s half lying on the table.  Elio breaks the kiss just for long enough to breathe “upstairs?” and, tempting though it is to continue right here and now, Oliver’s happy to oblige. 

“Race you?  Winner gets to choose what we do first.” Oliver’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he flees from the kitchen.  He has a head start, of course, being on his feet already, but it’s getting dark and Elio knows the house far better than him, managing to push past Oliver mercilessly at the bottom of the stairs, digging an elbow into his side.  Oliver catches up to him as he’s opening the bedroom door, and imprisons him in his arms, twisting Elio around so that Oliver can slip through the door first.  Oliver’s in the room first, but Elio slips under his arm and throws himself face first onto the bed, triumphant. 

Oliver feels light and untroubled, as though he’s a child again, running around the house with his siblings and without a care in the world.  He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

The exact terms of the race were never clarified.  Oliver says it finished with the first person through the door.  Elio says that, obviously, the first person to the bed is the winner.  So the race is declared a draw, which suits both of them since, as it turns out, they both want to do exactly the same thing.

 

Afterwards Oliver dozes for a while, but it’s really too early to go to bed for the night, and Elio appears to be fast asleep, so Oliver pulls on underwear and a t-shirt and goes to get a drink of water and to smoke a cigarette out on the balcony.  He’s still smoking when he hears Elio padding out, barefoot, to join him.

“Sorry.  Did I wake you?”  Elio shakes his head.  “You want one?”  Oliver holds the cigarette packet towards Elio and they smoke in silence, listening to the quiet sounds of the night, looking at the stars and the bright half moon.

They’ve somehow found themselves standing in exactly the same spots as they did on their first night together, but this time Elio makes no sign of protest or uncertainty when Oliver takes his chin in his fingers and tilts Elio’s head up to kiss him gently.  But the kiss doesn't stay gentle for long, and it seems to be only moments later that Oliver finds himself with his back against the balcony railing as Elio pushes his underwear down a little and falls to his knees.  Oliver grasps the railing and inhales sharply.

“Elio.  _Elio_.”  It’s a whisper, but as whispers go it’s a loud one.  “What are you doing?”

Elio stops what he’s doing for a moment, moves his mouth just slightly away, so that Oliver can still feel his breath as he look up at him with a wicked glint in his eyes and says, “You want me to stop?”

“That’s… that’s not what I mean.  It’s late, your mom and dad could get back any moment, and-” Oliver lets out an involuntary moan, “and I don’t want them to pull up in the car and look up here and see half my ass hanging out of my underwear.”  God, he _really_ doesn’t want that.

Elio pauses again and looks back up at Oliver, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his hand.  “They won’t come back yet.  It’s fine.” 

Oliver’s resolve is fast failing him in the face of Elio doing this, here, but he cranes his head around to look for the headlights he’s convinced are going to come up the driveway at any moment.

Elio stops, again, and runs a hand up Oliver’s thigh in a gesture meant to reassure.  “Oliver, relax.  I told you, it’s fine.”

Oliver still isn’t really convinced, but this is getting frustrating.  It’s his own fault, because he should never have started this conversation in the first place.  He takes a long, slow breath as he digs his fingers into Elio’s hair.  “Okay, okay, if you says so, that’s fine, lets- let’s just stop talking, that’s enough talking-” another moan- “ _Elio_ … keep doing that."  Elio pauses, _again_ , looks as though he's about to say something else, which simply won't do at all, so Oliver tells him says once more, "really, no more talking,“ and pulls gently on his hair to move his mouth back to-

Elio laughs, and this time he pulls away completely and sits back on his heels.  There’s mischief in his eyes.  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?  No more talking?  Cheeky.  Here-“ he pulls Oliver’s underwear to the floor, “Get these off.”  Oliver kicks them away.  Elio’s standing now, and he pushes Oliver’s shoulder to turn him around to lean over the balcony rail.  “See?  You can keep watch for my mom and dad getting back.  Now don’t move.  I’ll be right back.”

Oliver can’t think of a retort, because his brain has stuttered to a halt.  He’s only just discovering how much he likes being told what to do, what a phenomenal turn on it is for him to just have someone else take control for once, and _when did Elio get to be so sassy?_

He has a pretty good idea of where this might be heading. 

It seems like Elio is gone for an eternity, but it’s probably only a few seconds until he’s back.  The sound of a bottle opening and the feel of Elio’s cool fingers make it clear that Oliver’s suspicions about what’s going to happen were spot on, and although Elio has a moment of hesitation- _is this okay?_ \- Oliver has no complaints about this development whatsoever.  So he rests his head on his hands on the balcony rail, and is soon so lost that he doesn’t care about anything, anything other than Elio’s hands on him, Elio inside him, Elio doing that thing he does sometimes where he stops speaking English, and is murmuring in French, with a smattering of Italian.  Oliver barely understands a word but he doesn’t care in the slightest, because it’s hot as hell.  There’s a mix of Oliver’s name- _in Elio’s French accent_ \- and his own name, as well as what Oliver thinks are probably, judging by Elio’s tone of voice, a mix of endearments and expletives. 

Oliver may be facing the driveway now, but his eyes are closed and honestly?  He probably wouldn’t even notice if the Perlmans came home, parked the car a few feet away and struck up a conversation with him about ancient Greek philosophy. 

Elio’s hands are under Oliver’s t-shirt, pushing it up to give himself more access to Oliver’s skin, and then Oliver feels him scrunch up the hem between his fingers as he comes.  He takes only a moment to catch his breath before he turns Oliver back around and kisses him hard, and then he’s back on his knees again, and it’s the work of mere seconds until Oliver comes in Elio’s mouth, clutching the balcony rail behind him. 

Before Oliver’s had a chance to process what’s happening, Elio has collapsed onto his back on the stone floor, laughing uncontrollably.

Oliver’s breathless, smiling quizzically at Elio.  “What?  What’s so funny?”

Elio snorts.  “It’s silly.  I just had a weird thought.  That until I did that, I didn’t expect to like it so much.”

Oliver’s laughing too, now.  “Which bit?”

“All of it.  And- you know-”  He’s becoming serious, quieter.  “I get it now.  I absolutely _get it_.  Why you wanted to… you know… the peach.”

Oh.  _Oh_.  "Well, I like it all too.”  Oliver raises an eyebrow.  “Maybe I’ll let you do it again some time."  Elio laughs.  "Now c’mon.”  Oliver extends a hand and Elio lets himself be pulled to his feet and into Oliver's arms.  “It’s getting chilly.  Let’s go inside.”

* * *

In their final days they revisit all the places they've been this summer, an unspoken pilgrimage of sorts, to reshape the memories of _you_ and _me_ into memories of _us_.  They climb the monument where Elio first confessed, to the amusement and disapproval of passers by.  They go to the river late at night and splash one another and swim, naked, under the bright, pale white moonlight.  Then Oliver stands in the water and they kiss and kiss and _kiss_ , Elio's legs wrapped around his waist as the water and Oliver take his weight.  They go back to Elio’s place, the spot where they first kissed, and spend an afternoon reading and talking and soaking up the sun, completely content.

Oliver is _happy_ , and even more valuable than the feeling itself is the fact that he recognises his happiness for what it is, and savours every moment.  That’s not to say he doesn’t think, sometimes, of what's to come, but keeps those thoughts separate, pushes them down and doesn't let them intrude.  Because Oliver has always been pragmatic, and it’s inevitable, after all- there’s no stopping time, so worrying about it now, being unhappy about it now, would serve no purpose. 

But then.  Time has, indeed, done its work, and suddenly they leave for Bergamo tomorrow morning.  Oliver’s last dinner at the Perlmans’ is a quiet affair, with just the four of them.  Sunset is almost a full hour earlier than it was when Oliver first arrived here, so dinners, too, are earlier than they were.  The nights are noticeably drawing in as summer comes to a close.

Afterwards Oliver suggests a bike ride- a _final_ bike ride, although he doesn’t say that- and he leads the way back to Elio’s spot.  Elio smiles when Oliver pulls a blanket from his backpack, along with a half-full bottle of wine and two plastic cups. 

They lie down, propped up on their elbows, side-by-side, and Elio holds up his cup of wine, proposing a toast.  He smiles, the same smile Oliver remembers so well from when he offered a truce weeks ago on the shore of Lake Garda.  No words are said, and the plastic cups don’t exactly clink when they bump them together, but it’s good all the same.  _To this.  To here.  To us._

Unhurried, they undress each other and make love, slow and sweet and almost silent, under the clear night sky.   And afterwards they lie side-by-side, hands and legs entwined, and gaze up at the pinpricks of starlight in the darkness.  Oliver feels as though he’s seeing the stars anew, as though they were placed in the sky, here and now, just for the two of them to find.  _Elio and Oliver.  Oliver and Elio._

* * *

Oliver's packed and they’re almost ready to leave for Bergamo when he has a moment of blind panic.  He'll never, in all his life, be here again.  He'll never stand in this room, this room which was Elio's room, then his room, then _their_ room.  This room where, one night just after midnight, he became Elio and Elio became him and everything in his world changed. 

So he opens the connecting door to look for Elio, who went into his room next door to get some clothes.  He's not there, but one of his striped t-shirts is lying discarded and crumpled on the bed.  On impulse Oliver grabs it and stuffs it into his bag.  He needs this, needs _something_ to keep as a reminder of Elio and what they did, of what he felt and who he was this summer.  Of  what _they were_. Because he's leaving, _right now_ , and everyone he knows will expect him to go home and be the same person he was before he came here.  There won't be anybody, ever, who he can tell about this, who he can talk to about Elio.  His chest tightens and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, because he has no idea how he’s going to survive this, and-

Elio appears from the bathroom.  “Ready?”

Oliver will never be ready, but he nods anyway, and they go downstairs together.

 

And so Oliver's goodbyes are said to the Perlmans, the people who have become so much like family to him.  They wave goodbye and off he and Elio go, happiness bubbling between them.  Elio’s smile is young and carefree, which is exactly how Oliver feels.  Elio naps with his head resting on Oliver’s shoulder as the bus winds its way up into the hills.  If people are looking at them and thinking it’s strange, Oliver doesn’t notice and wouldn't care anyway.  Their fingers are tangled lightly together in between them, where no-one will see.  Still, Oliver is careful.  He wants to put his arm around Elio, to hold him close.  He wants to kiss those beautiful dark curls on top of his head, to bury his nose in Elio’s hair and breathe him in.  But he doesn’t, because he can’t.  _Besides_ , he tells himself, _this is enough_.  Here and now, Elio is warm and sleepy, leaning against him.  He can smell Elio’s skin and soap and shampoo.  He doesn’t need anything else. 

An unwelcome, sickening thought strikes him.  Maybe he does need something else.  Maybe they both do, because Oliver wants to be with someone whose hand he can hold on a bus, without worrying that people will see.  Right now he wants, more than anything, for Elio to be that person.  But he’s not, and he never will be. 

Even more importantly- there’s Elio.  Elio _deserves_ to be with someone whose hand he can hold in public, without having to worry about what might happen if they get caught.  Oliver cannot be that person, and he’s not going to be the person who denies Elio the opportunity to have that.  It's something he could have with someone else, someone who is not a man.

That’s not fair, none of it is fair, but it’s the way things are, and Oliver is powerless to change that.  He fights a sudden wave of nausea, and wishes, desperately, that things were different, that there could be a way for this to work for both of them.

But there isn't.  So Oliver thinks, instead, about Elio, and how he is _here_ , _now_.  About how this is enough.  

 

When they arrive, they leave their bags behind the front desk of the hotel and board another bus to take them out into the mountains.  They’ve left the sunshine behind and by the time they arrive it’s pouring with rain.  Oliver doesn’t care.  He thinks about peeling Elio out of his wet clothes.  His skin will feel cool and damp, and taste of rain and grass.   

But Elio doesn’t want to stop.  He's full of a nervous, frantic energy, and although he doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind, there’s always another landmark to reach.  _Let’s go up to that next rock there.  Let’s see what’s past these trees._ And finally- _let’s go see the waterfall_.  So they do, running and laughing and shouting as they go, until they have to head back down to the road if they want to get back to Bergamo before dark.

It’s a good, maybe even perfect, day.

* * *

By the time they actually reach their hotel room, they're both almost delirious with joy, with so much happiness that it's overflowing, and Oliver isn’t sure what to do with it all.  But they've been invited to dinner by the professor from the university tonight, which means that they don't get to finish what they start in the hotel room, although of course there's the promise of _later._ And the anticipation only adds to the continuing deliciousness of the evening, fuelled by alcohol and each other.  After dinner they go out for more drinks, just the two of them, and Oliver's head is swimming delightfully.  Perhaps they’ve had a little too much alcohol, actually, because Oliver doesn’t remember how he comes to be dancing with strangers in the street- and that’s when Elio throws up.  It seems enormously funny for a moment, before Oliver’s protective instincts kick in and he to suddenly sobers up.

Elio hangs off his arm and lets Oliver guide him to get some water and rinse out his mouth.  And then suddenly a switch is flipped and, just like that, they’re lost in each other once more.  The universe narrows until there’s nothing left, _nothing,_ but the two of the them, Elio’s hands on his arm and Elio’s gaze and Elio’s mouth.  Elio looks at him, eyes full of wonder and a dark, aching hunger, a perfect mirror of Oliver's own feelings. 

So they kiss.  Though, really, _kiss_ is an understatement for what this is.  It's so much more that the fundamentals of what makes a kiss.  It's a declaration and a promise, of something more than any of the vows they'll never be able to make.  It's an affirmation of everything they are, these two people, this one person, eliooliveroliverelio. 

And it is, without doubt, an amazing kiss in its own right.  Elio rolls himself into it and pushes Oliver into the wall as though to imprint him there, the shape of the two of them forever enshrined as one in this spot.  Oliver pulls him closer, and _closer_ , and pours his heart _, himself_ , into this kiss, so much so that he's not sure there will be anything left of him when they're done.

 

The next morning is the beginning of their last full day together.  _The last_.  Throughout their trip Oliver has been pushing down thoughts about the end, but they keep intruding, uninvited, all the same.  Oliver keeps them inside, and doesn’t let them encroach into the space between himself and Elio.  And the thoughts are so fleeting- just tiny moments within moments when he feels them seep in through the cracks.  And then they’re gone, banished- or at the very least, buried.  For now. 

Today- the university.  Oliver’s _work_ , he reminds himself- the reason he came to Italy.   While Oliver collects the books and papers he needs, Elio joins him in the library, wandering through the stacks, fingers trailing along the spines of books until something catches his eye.  They sit opposite one another at a table in the reading room, and Oliver keeps stealing glances at Elio.  But things are so different now, not at all like they were six weeks ago- because now Elio looks back, and meets Oliver’s gaze, and smiles. 

 

After a long day in the library, they get distracted by each other in the hotel room, and need to shower before going out for dinner.  When Oliver comes out of the bathroom, Elio is already dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed reading a scrap of paper in his hand.  Oliver gives him a quizzical look.

“It’s the note.  From your shirt.  Is it weird that I kept it?”

“No.  God, no.  That’s not weird.”  Oliver hesitates, not sure if he should ask.  “Would it be weird if I asked you to write something for me?”  He suddenly, desperately needs something from Elio, something that Elio has written for him, to keep.  _Will they write to one another, when Oliver goes home?  Surely they will, won’t they?  That’s what people do, but-_   Oliver’s thoughts are racing, getting out of control, until Elio mercifully interrupts them.

“Did you finish _Armance_?  Do you still have it?” 

Maybe it is weird.  Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, maybe that’s why Elio is changing the subject- to the latest in the long succession of books Oliver has read this summer, borrowed from the bookshelf in Elio’s room.  “Oh.  Yeah.  I have it in my bag, just let me find it and I'll give it back now, so I don’t forget.”  _So I don't forget to give it back before I leave._

“Don’t give it back.  Keep it.  But let me have it for a moment.”  Oliver hands over the book and Elio riffles through his backpack before, triumphantly, producing a pen from the bottom of it.  He half expects Elio to write the opposite of the note from Oliver’s shirt- To Elio, from Oliver.  But no.  _Zwischen Immer und Nie, for you in silence, somewhere in Italy in the mid-eighties_.  He hands the book back with a smile and a small nod.  Oliver smiles back, swallowing around the lump in his throat, because it’s so absolutely Elio and so completely perfect.

* * *

Oliver isn't thinking about the fact that this is their _last night_ , but he does know that he wishes this night could go on for the rest of his life.  He loses track of who’s who because both of them are everywhere, in and around and over and under, _eliooliveroliverelio_. 

Until suddenly something changes.  Everything is clear once more, because Oliver is brought back into himself by the fact that Elio is crying.  Oliver hates seeing Elio cry.  Helplessness overwhelms him as Elio moves inside him, his quiet tears  falling from his nose and chin onto Oliver’s chest, his neck, the Star of David lying between his collarbones.  Oliver reaches up and cradles his head, wiping the tears with his thumbs.  He wants to drink Elio’s tears and take Elio’s pain inside himself.  But there was a good reason why he’s been so determined not to think about this, this ending, this feeling- and now, suddenly, in the face of Elio’s tears, he can’t stop.  It hurts so much already that Oliver's not sure he can take any more of this sorrow. 

Somehow, they will each have to survive this themselves. 

 

Oliver’s woken in the morning- well, it’s still night, really- by Elio quietly crying.  He’s lying curled up on his side.  Oliver feels another piece of his heart shatter.   He curls himself around him and soothes on instinct, empty words of _shh, it’s okay, Elio_.  _It’ll be alright._

Nothing about this is okay.  It’s not going to be alright.  He kisses the back of Elio’s neck, and Elio’s breathing becomes more ragged as he moves his hips slightly back, pressing against Oliver’s body.  _Elio,_ he whispers, between his tears.  _Please._

“Elio?  You’re sure?”

“Please.  Just- please.”

They scarcely move, Oliver’s chest pressed to Elio’s back, Elio’s hands covering his own face while his tears continue to fall unchecked.  Oliver rocks inside him, gently, holding Elio, fucking him through the sobs that shake his body.   Fingers tangled in Elio’s hair, Oliver trails kisses along his neck and shoulders and hopes that Elio can’t tell that he’s crying too, his tears soaking into the pillow. 

Elio breathes- _Elio_ \- and Oliver reaches for his hand where it still covers his face.  He places his own over it and links their fingers loosely together before trailing them down and wrapping them both around Elio’s cock, moving them until Elio comes with a breathy gasp, wet and warm over their linked hands.  Oliver follows almost immediately, murmuring his own name in Elio’s ear.

Elio’s still sobbing- broken, quiet hiccups.  Oliver breathes into his neck, warm and damp with tears, whispers _oh, Oliver._ Elio’s shoulders shake intermittently with the sniffles of a child who’s cried himself out, and his breathing slows as he drifts into sleep.  Oliver knows he's not going to sleep again tonight, so he watches Elio.  The room is warm and he’s naked on top of the sheets.  His legs are impossibly long and his head is pillowed on his own arms.  His face is still flushed pink from crying and sex. 

Elio is fast asleep when Oliver takes his nail scissors from his bag and snips off a lock of his hair, a single curl, from behind Elio’s ear, where it won’t be noticeable.  In the absence of anywhere safer to keep it, he puts it in between the pages of _Armance_.  Elio doesn’t stir.

Oliver questions his own sanity.  Is this a strange thing to do?  Probably.  Not so much the desire to keep a lock of a lover’s hair, but the fact that Oliver hasn’t asked Elio.  And why not?  Elio wouldn’t have said no, would doubtless have suggested an exchange, like for like, symbolic, something lovers might do before they’re parted. 

Which is, of course, the answer.  He didn’t ask Elio because they’re not talking about that, about the end.  Oliver doesn’t want to make it real.  So this is another piece of Elio that he’s squirreling away, like the shirt and his inscription in the book, hoarded for sustenance when times get lean. 

And also, maybe, a quiet voice whispers, he didn’t ask `because he doesn’t want Elio to know just how much this means to him.  Although _why not_?  Why doesn’t Oliver want him to know?  That’s something Oliver has agonised over for so many hours.  He’s still thinking about it now.  And the truth is that this isn’t about the knowing- because Elio already knows, of course he does, they both know how much this means.  It’s about the acknowledgement, about having the courage to stand up and say _you are everything.  You are so much me, and I so much you, that I don’t know how my life will go on without you, even though I know it will have to._ Oliver can’t bring himself to say those things to himself, let alone to Elio.  Because what would happen then?  If those words, those terrifying, colossal words were allowed the freedom to go out into the world, what would they do there?

Oliver locks the words away, and the thoughts that go hand-in-hand with them. 

The faintest light through the window shows that dawn is not far away.

 

Oliver lets Elio sleep in as long as he can, because he’s exhausted, and because when he wakes up there will be no escaping the reality of Oliver’s imminent parting.  Oliver could happily sit and watch Elio sleep forever.

But a glance at Elio’s watch tells Oliver that they have to get up, because if they don’t then Oliver will miss his train and his plane, and he can’t do that.  He wakes Elio gently, with soft words and a hand tangled in his curls.  _Elio?  You have to wake up.  We’ve missed breakfast, and we need to go soon._   Oliver’s body is crying out to fall back onto the bed and take Elio in his arms, to simply hold him and feel his warmth and his skin one last time, but he doesn’t, because how would he ever stop, knowing that it was the last time? 

Elio’s eyes are red when he finally awakens, covering a yawn with his hand.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t want the last time to be like that.  It should’ve been something good to remember.”

“It was.  Of course it was.  Don’t be sorry.  It doesn’t have to be happy to be a good thing to remember.  It was perfect.”  Oliver doesn’t say _it wasn’t the last time, maybe it wasn’t the last time.  We’ll be together again_.  He’s never lied to Elio, and there’d be no point in starting now.

 

They speak little as they dress and pack their things and go to the station.  Waiting, silently, until Oliver sees the train approaching in the distance, and pulls Elio aside around a corner at one end of the station building, where no-one will see.  And that’s where they kiss- a kiss that has to be enough for forever. 

It’s not.  It could never be enough, but the train is pulling in to the platform.

Oliver wants Elio to say something.  If Elio asks him to stay, begs him not to get on that train, then that's what he'll do.  Stay, and deal with the consequences later.  

It's an easy thing to tell himself, because he knows that Elio will never do that, any more than Oliver would plead for Elio to come with him back to New York.

Oliver has to go, and Elio has to stay.

And in this moment, there are no words to explain, no words of goodbye, no promises to make.  Elio’s eyes are still red from the previous night, and he keeps rubbing at them with his hand.  He looks even smaller than ever before, drowning in Oliver’s blue shirt.  Elio’s blue shirt, _for Oliver, from Elio._

Elio feels so tiny, and so fragile, as Oliver holds him tight, fighting the emotion that threatens to leak out from the cracks and shatter him to pieces.  He’s not going to break down and cry now.  But he doesn’t want to let go.  He wants to take Elio by the hand and run away from this place, to say _I’m not going to go.  I can’t go.  I can’t do this.  Let me stay with you._ He wants to save real life for another day, to go back with Elio and live here every day where it’s forever summer. 

But finally, when there’s no time left for indecision or second guessing, he turns and gets on the train.  The reasons why he has to do this, the reasons which he’s been thinking about all week, flash through his mind in a mere fraction of a second.  None of them have anything to do with the life he’s going back to.  All of them are to do with Elio, and the life Elio deserves to have, and that should make things easier but it doesn’t.  Elio nods.  _Go.  It’s okay.  We’ll be okay._

One last glace at Elio’s face, with Oliver’s own emotions written on it so plainly, and Oliver looks away for fear that his resolve will crumble, that he will break here and now and beg to be let back off the train. 

But the train starts to move, and Oliver stares at the wall of the compartment, seeing nothing.  Feeling nothing. 

Because Elio has been left behind, and with him, the best part of Oliver.  Only a shadow remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know it had been so long since I updated this. Almost 5 weeks. So... here we are. In the end I figured I just had to get it finished and out there. There are a few bits I'm really unsure about, and I wanted to get rid of some completely but they all said something important about Oliver or their relationship so... I don't know.  
> I usually read the whole thing through one final time before I post, but it's pretty late, and I have reached the point of thinking FUCK IT, JUST HIT POST AND GO TO BED. Otherwise it will probably be days before I sort it out. So here you go.  
> One more chapter to go!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	7. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver can't face taking the train from the airport, so he gets a taxi, even though he can't really afford it, and gets dropped off outside his apartment building just after ten at night. The apartment is dark and silent, his roommate not there. He probably didn't even remember that Oliver was due back tonight.  
> Oliver feels as though he should cry, but he doesn't. He can't, because he's completely empty. There's nothing left in him- no tears, no anything. He left himself halfway across the world and there's no going back for it.  
> He goes to his room, drops his bags at the foot of the bed and sleeps, fully dressed, for twelve hours straight.

Oliver has no idea how he got back to New York.  There must have been trains, waiting around in the airport, a flight.  He must have eaten something and shown his passport and collected his luggage.  But all he remembers are strange, disconnected snippets.  A concerned-looking Italian lady on the train, grey haired and tiny, tapping him on the shoulder to ask if he was alright.  He's not sure what gave him away, but he nodded and thanked her and said he was fine, in his best Italian, because that's the way he is.  Sipping coffee, bitter and black, while sitting on a plastic chair in the airport.  The air hostess’s red-lipped smile as he boarded the plane.  

He can't face taking the train from the airport, so he gets a taxi, even though he can't really afford it, and gets dropped off outside his apartment building just after ten at night.  The apartment is dark and silent, his roommate not there.  He probably didn't even remember that Oliver was due back tonight. 

Oliver feels as though he should cry, but he doesn't.  He can't, because he's completely empty.  There's nothing left in him- no tears, no anything.  He left himself halfway across the world and there's no going back for it.

He goes to his room, drops his bags at the foot of the bed and sleeps, fully dressed, for twelve hours straight.

 

"Oliver, you're here, you're awake!  Man, is it good to see you!  I missed you!  Here- I made coffee."

Oliver's wearing just a pair of sweatpants, trying to flatten his hair, which he knows is sticking up in all directions from travel and sleep.  Robert, his roommate, pushes a cup into his hands.

"Sit down, sit down, tell me all about it.  You look great, by the way.  Though, honestly, you don't look like someone who's done a lot of work."  He smirks, and raises his eyebrows knowingly.  Oliver knows he looks like he's spent all summer out in the sunshine- because that's more or less true.  He's tanned, dark and golden, and his hair is streaked through with light blonde. 

"Well, I finished my book.  Pretty much."

"That's great, but it's not what I want to hear about.  C'mon, tell me everything- what it was like there, what you did, what you ate, who you met."

Oliver sighs.  "I... sorry.  I guess I'm still pretty tired.  Can we talk properly later?"

"Wait a moment- did somebody bite you?  Looks like you might have an interesting story to tell."

Oliver hadn't thought about covering up.  His hand goes instinctively to cover his shoulder.  "I- can we just, please, not talk about this?"

"Oh, okay, sure.  Sorry.  Look- we're going out for dinner tonight.  Everyone's been dying to see you, to hear all about your adventures."

"Oh, I don't know, I might pass.  Jet lag."

"Oliver, you can't!  Everyone's coming along.  You're the last one of us to get back to the city ready for the new semester.  A week!  Can you believe there's only a week until classes start?"

"Mmm."  It's the non-committal sound of someone who's not engaged in the conversation that's going on around them.  Oliver's sitting at the kitchen table now, sipping on his coffee.  It's terrible.  He's grown accustomed to drinking espresso, and this tastes weak and watery in comparison. 

Robert fills Oliver in on what he's missed, on his own summer, on who's broken up with who and who's now dating and who went where for summer vacation.  Oliver nods and makes appropriate noises of _yeah?_ and _no!_ and _oh really_ , but his heart's not in it.  He should be pleased to hear the gossip about his friends, who he hasn't seen all summer.  These are the people who make up his life here in New York, people he cares about and who care about him.  But he just can't bring himself to give a damn about it all now, can scarcely bring himself to listen at all.  He feels a momentary, small pang of guilt- because he honestly hasn't spared a thought for these people in weeks.

So he stands and pours his coffee down the sink.  "Robert, look, we'll talk later.  I need to take a shower and unpack, maybe do some laundry, and honestly?  I might take a nap.  I'm just so tired."

"Seriously?  What's the matter with you?  You just got up!  You haven't even been awake for half an hour!"

"I know, I know, and I _will_ come out to dinner later, I promise.  I just..."  Oliver shrugs and shakes his head.

He and Robert are roommates, primarily.  They're friends, yes, but not especially close ones, definitely not the sort of friends who share secrets.  Nonetheless- they've lived together for a long time now, and they know each other pretty well- well enough to make it difficult to hide very much from him.  As Oliver turns to go back to his room, Robert grabs his arm.

"What's wrong?"  Robert looks at his face as though searching for something there.  "Something's wrong, you can't tell me it's not.  It's more than just jet lag, Oliver."

"Honestly, I'm just tired.  Really.  I just need some rest, to get back into the old routine.  You know?"

"Okay.  If you say so."  Robert's face makes it clear that he doesn't believe it, but Oliver doesn't care.  He doesn't want to talk about it, and doesn't think he ever will.

 

He leans his head against the cool tiles of the shower wall and lets the water flow over him, focused on taking deep, even breaths.  Because it feels as though he's washing Elio away, as though he's  disappearing down the drain as the last traces of his touch are erased from Oliver's skin.  Oliver doesn't know why it hurts so much, why it feels so raw.  It's not like it was anything he could see, or smell, or feel.   Even the bite mark is fast fading away.  But still- he wishes he could preserve Elio on his skin somehow.  Of course he can't- it's not like he can just give up showering- so instead he turns the shower as hot as it will go and thinks of nothing as his skin turns red under the scalding heat.

When he's done, when the water's run cold, he does, strangely, feel a little better.  It feels good to have washed away the grime of the long journey.

He figures he should unpack his bags, and it feels so strange to take out the summer clothes he'll have little use for in the fall in New York.  There might be heat, still, and sunshine, but probably not summer-in-Italy heat, and besides, Oliver's classes start in a week. He knows he'll have little time for leisure. 

The shirt, Elio's blue-and-white striped t-shirt, takes him by surprise when he opens his second bag.  He's sucks in a ragged breath, afraid to touch it, afraid of the memories it might awaken.  Tentative, as though it's an animal which might rear up and bite his fingers, he brushes his fingers over the soft fabric before finding the courage to take it out of the bag. 

The moment he scrunches it between his fingers and brings it up to his face, he knows he is lost.  Elio wore this on the last night before they left for Bergamo.  It smells of the grass they lay on, and faintly of cigarettes, but mostly of Elio.  

The rest of Oliver's things remain unpacked as he falls back into bed and sleeps again, face buried in Elio's shirt.

 

Oliver wakes up, groggy and disoriented, to Robert knocking on his door.  "Oliver?  C'mon, you've been asleep for hours.  It's almost six.  Get dressed, we're going out in an hour."

Before Oliver goes anywhere, there's something he has to do.  While Robert's in the shower, he sits down by the phone to report his safe return, as promised, to the Perlmans.  Oliver doesn't know why he's so nervous about a simple phone call, both hoping and not-hoping that it will be Elio who answers. 

It's Annella who picks up.  "Oliver!  You got home safely?  Everything's alright?"

"Yeah, I did.  Yes, thank you.  I'm pretty tired, still, but I'm okay."

"Wonderful.  I'll let everyone know you got home."  There's a pause, as they both think about whether to bring up the subject that hangs between them.  Annella breaks the silence.  "Elio's still asleep.  I can wake him, though.  Did you want to speak to him?"

"Oh, no, don't bother him.  It's okay."  Oliver's relieved, actually, because much as he wants to hear Elio's voice, he's not sure he's ready to do so.  "Is Elio... is he alright?"  It's really not like Elio to sleep in until- Oliver looks at the clock on the kitchen wall and does the calculation- eleven.  Almost lunch time, he thinks. 

He knows there's more to his question than concern about Elio's sleeping habits, and Annella knows this too.  "Well..."  Another pause, a barely audible sigh.  "Yes, he's fine.  I think he misses you.  He's been very tired, sleeping a lot.  I could ask him to call you later?  I'm sure he'd like to speak to you."

 _I can't, I can't, I can't_.  "No, I'm heading out in a little bit, catching up with some friends.  In fact, I should probably go get ready."

"Well, thank you for calling.  I'm pleased you got home safely.  You'll call us again soon, yes?  We go back to the city at the end of next week, but you have our number there, don't you?"

"Yes.  Yes, thank you, I do."

Annella's quiet again.  "Oliver.  You're sure you're alright?  You're always welcome to call, to talk to us, if you want to.  I know international calls are expensive but please, we'd be more than happy to call you if the cost is a problem."

"Okay.  Thank you.  I might just take you up on that."

"Well, then.  Later?"

Oliver laughs, stilted and awkward.  "Later.  I'll talk to you soon."

Annella hangs up at the other end of the line, and Oliver sits listening to the dial tone, lost in his own empty head.

There's just one task left to be done before he goes out.  Back in his room, Oliver searches through a desk drawer for something he's almost sure is there- a plastic film canister.  He pops off the grey lid and finds the copy of _Armance_ in a side pocket of the bag he's still yet to unpack.  There, inside it, is the lock of Elio's hair, slightly curled and almost baby-fine.  He rubs it between his fingers and thumb before dropping it into the container, pushing the lid back on, and replacing it in the drawer.

* * *

Oliver finds the evening with friends draining.  He's genuinely pleased to see them, but he's suffering from a potent combination of jet-lag and heartbreak, which means that he's not very good company and he knows it.  They probably assume that he's still exhausted from travelling, and he doesn't try to correct them.  He knows that he's going to have to repair the cracks in the mask if he's going to convince people that everything's alright, but right now he just can't manage it.

Emma corners him as they leave and head for the subway, taking his arm, companionably, and walking a little behind the rest of the group.  She knows him better than any of the others, so if anyone was going to see through him it would be her.

"What's wrong, Oliver?"  She sees him open his mouth, about to speak, but cuts him off.  "Don't tell me it's nothing.  I know you too well.  You're not just tired.  What is it?"

For want of anything better to say, Oliver goes for the truth.  "Honestly?  It's something I'm not going to talk about.  Leave it alone.  Please."  So she does, but not without demanding to meet in the week.

"How about Wednesday?  Let's catch up properly."  Oliver can't bring himself to fight her, so he nods. 

 

The first week back in New York is busy.  Oliver has always been one to throw himself into his work.  He's trying harder to put on a brave face, and it seems to be paying off.  He meets with his advisor and it's easy enough to keep turning the conversation back to Heraclitus whenever questions are asked about the rest of his Italian experience.  He soon has a bank of safe conversational topics, ready-prepared in his head.  Things that he can talk about, being polite and telling people about his stay, but without memories of Elio threatening to bring him to his knees.  There's the weather, of course (hot, sunny- can't you tell?  He holds out a tanned forearm for inspection).  The professor and his work are good topics (fantastic, he was amazing, so helpful, wait until you read my book, you won't believe it).  The food is a safe option, because who doesn't love Italian food?  (Delicious!   You can see how amazing it was, just look at me, I've put on so much weight.  I'm gonna have to get back into running when the semester starts again). 

None of these topics are _good_ , really.  There's nothing completely safe.  All of them bring memories flooding back, memories that are still far too raw to be comfortable.  Elio sits in all of them, like a shadow constantly in his peripheral vision.  Elio in the sun, dozing by the pool.  Elio on the shore of Lake Garda, leaning over a statue brought up out of the water.  Elio at the table, smiling, toes playing with Oliver’s own.

He meets Emma, they drink coffee, they chat. She doesn't push him to confess what's wrong, although he can tell she wants to.  It's nice, really- he remembers why they always got on so well, why they're such good friends.  He almost wants to tell her about Elio.  Almost.

Oliver is existing, at least.  Perhaps not much more than existing, but it's better than nothing.  Surely it's better. 

 

He needs to see his family at the weekend, so one afternoon he takes the train home.  He hasn't lived here in years, knows he'll never live here again, but it's still home in a way his apartment in New York never has been. His mom is the only one home when he arrives, and she's in the kitchen when he gets there, but he has his own key and lets himself in.  She fusses over him- hugs him, admires his tan, tells him he needs to get a haircut, demands he sit down in the kitchen and tell her all about his summer.  Right now, though?  He just can't quite do it.

"Actually, mom?  I'm so sorry, but it's been such a busy week and I'm just really, really tired. Do you mind if I go take a nap for a few minutes?  I'll be okay by dinner time, I promise."

His mom takes his bag from his hand and guides him toward the stairs with a hand at the small of his back.  "Of course, sweetheart.  Let's take these things upstairs, and you can tell us all about everything over dinner. I made all of your favourites."

She opens the door to his bedroom, the room which is still _his_ , despite not having being his for six years.  It's all the same, but Oliver is somehow so different.  And yet, suddenly so young and so afraid.  His mom has left, closing the door with a soft click, and he's alone.  Everything is familiar, his childhood is right here, the twin bed and the outdated posters on the walls and even a stuffed animal or two.  The memories won't leave him alone.  Flashes of another bedroom- another bedroom where another young man has lived and grown up.  A smile, just for him.  Running his fingers over a head, covered with soft, loose, dark curls.  Memories of _them_ , each one clearer than the last.  Suddenly, something breaks, rises, hard and dry in his throat, and he's crying.  The memories continue to rise to the surface, unstoppable now, and ugly, wrenching sobs tear through him as he falls onto the bed. 

 

He doesn't know how long he's been crying, but he just can't stop.  Every time he thinks he's done he remembers something else and before he knows it he's sobbing again.  He wonders if he'll ever be able to stop, or if it would be easier just to keep going, to cry forever.  He scarcely hears the knock at the door, and his mother lets herself in, sits by him on the bed.

"Oh, Oliver.  Baby.  It's alright."  She strokes his hair.  "I'm sorry, I thought you probably wanted to be left alone but you've been crying for so long.  Here, sit up, let me take a look at you."  Oliver shakes his head.  "Do you want me to leave you alone?"  Another shake of the head.  "Do you want to talk about it?" 

"I can't."  It's muffled, because he face is half-buried in the damp pillow.  More sobs.

"Okay.  Shhhh.  It's okay." 

They stay like that for a while.  Oliver's mom strokes his back, and he's still crying.  "C'mon.  Your dad'll be home soon.  Don't let him see you like this." 

She says it gently, reluctantly, but Oliver knows it's true, that he can't be in this state when his father gets home.  His father would have no idea what to do with such a show of emotion, with a grown man crying like a baby, even when the man in question is his own child. 

"Get up, sweetheart, and dry your eyes.  I have cookies in the kitchen, but you'll have to come down soon.  Leave it much later and you'll spoil your dinner."  She stands up but doesn't move from his side.  "Oliver?"

Oliver stumbles to his feet and she draws him into a hug.  Her head barely reaches his shoulder, and the fact that he's so much bigger than his mom now makes Oliver cry again.  There's a part of him that wants to tell her everything, to have her make it right.  But he's supposed to be old enough to know that's not how it works anymore.  He's supposed to be an adult.  So why does he feel so small and helpless?

"Shhhhhh."  She rocks his a little.  "Oliver.  Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No,"  he hiccups. 

"Are you in some sort of trouble?"

He almost laughs at this, takes a deep breath.  "No.  Nothing like that, mom.  You don't need to worry about me.  I'll be fine."

"I know you will, baby.  You always are.  You're stronger than you know.  You always make us so proud.  Now.  Cookies?"

"Yeah.  Okay."   Oliver takes a tissue from a box on the desk, and blows his nose.  

"Good boy.  Come on."

* * *

September mocks Oliver.  Because the summer that's just ended, the summer of _perfect_ and _Italy_ and _Elio_?  It turns out that it hasn't ended at all.  In New York, it's as though the summer is just getting started.  Labor day weekend is scorching hot, and people take to the park in shorts and t-shirts and talk about how great it is to have such wonderful weather right before school starts again.  Oliver is invited to no less that three different barbecues, but he makes his excuses and stays home.  Classes start, and the sun still shines.  While Oliver drinks his morning coffee the radio in his apartment reports that it's fifteen degrees above average for the time of year, then twenty, and by September 11th reports say that it's the hottest day of the year, the hottest September day in thirty years.  Oliver wants to scream, because he'd been hoping that being back in New York would mean routine and normalcy and not being haunted by memories.  Instead he's been cursed with this constant meteorological reminder of what he had and what he's lost.

The sizzling temperatures continue for three weeks into September. Oliver's routine is falling into place, but he's still struggling to put on a brave face.  He'd spent twenty years hiding behind his charm and the illusion of confidence, but Elio broke it all down for a handful of days and now Oliver just can't seem to get it back.  People notice.  They're gentler with him, careful, as though they're worried he might fall apart.  Oliver keeps saying _I'm alright, I'm just tired, things are just really busy right now_.  He tells himself that people believe him.  They probably don't.  He can't even convince himself.  

Ever since he broke down at his parents' house, he finds himself crying a lot.  He cries more in a single month than he has done since he was a toddler, a fact which makes him feel like a pathetic excuse for a man, which in turn only serves to make him feel even worse.

 

He writes to Elio, and Elio writes to him.  He's not sure who writes first, because their letters have obviously crossed in the post.  Neither of them say anything of consequence.  Their letters talk about the weather (it's unseasonably hot, I've had to wear my shorts again),  about school.  Elio has gone back to the city, now, to a house Oliver has never seen.  He's back at school, spending every day with friends Oliver's never met.  He's working on college applications.  The differences between them have never been more obvious.  Oliver doesn't know why this hurts so much. 

His train of thought continues along this vein, bringing to mind all the other things Oliver doesn't know.  He doesn't know whether Elio has a middle name, and if so, what it is.  He doesn't know if Elio has ever had a pet.  Does he prefer cats or dogs, or neither?  He doesn't even know when Elio's birthday is- he knows the month, but not the date.  He's starting to panic- how is it possible that he doesn't know these things?  They never talked about them because they seemed so small and unimportant at the time, but now Elio's there and Oliver's here the enormity of these tiny things threatens to overwhelm him. 

And the things that matter, the big things?  They didn't really talk about those either.  The things that didn't matter at the time, but which matter so much now.  Oliver wishes he'd said _I love you_.  He wishes he'd heard Elio say it back.  They said it, showed it, in other ways, but those three inadequate words have taken on, in their absence, a disproportionate importance.  Oliver didn't need it at the time, but to have heard them from Elio would have meant everything now.

Although he's happy to receive the letter, these thoughts won't leave him in peace.  It's not a good day for him.

That night he goes out onto the balcony of the apartment, to read the letter again.  He holds a cigarette between the shaky fingers of his right hand as his left fumbles with the envelope. 

Oliver reads it again, and smokes, and thinks.  Below, traffic and sirens and the constant buzz of people.  Above, there's nothing.  Aren't lovers supposed to gaze at the sky and think about how, despite their distance, they're looking at the same sky, the same stars? 

But there isn't a single star here.  The city is blanketed by clouds and the glare of a million lights, and Oliver feels them pressing down on him. 

There are no stars here for him.

It's only when he feels something wet on his cheek that he realises he's crying again.  This has happened so many times now that he knows there's no point fighting it.  He slumps against the wall and lets himself sob quietly.

 

Surprisingly, it turns out that Emma is the one bright spot in his sadness. Oliver had only been back for a week or so when she appeared at his apartment with beers and snacks in a grocery store bag.  "Are you busy?"  She peered around the door, into the empty living room.  "What am I saying?  Of course you're not.  Let me in.  Let's talk."

Oliver was too surprised to say no.  He'd assumed that meeting her for coffee the other day would have been enough to make her leave him alone for a while, but apparently not.  Emma didn't hesitate to get to the point.  She's known him for a long time, and apart from anything else they might mean to each other, she's one of his best friends.  Of course she knew something wasn't right. 

"Tell me about it.  I know there's something wrong- I could see from it the moment you turned up at the restaurant the other night, and you didn't fool me when we went for coffee the other day.  You met someone, right?  In Italy."

Oliver couldn't help but laugh at her boldness.  "Something like that.  You know me too well."

"And?"   Emma raised her eyebrows, quizzical, over her beer.

"And nothing.  It wasn't something that could ever have worked out.  For so many reasons.  I mean, apart from anything else, there's thousands of miles between here and Italy."

"You want to tell me about the _so many reasons_?"

"Honestly, Em?  I don't.  I just don't think I can talk about it right now." 

"She broke your heart?"

There are so many things wrong with that statement.  So many.  There's no girl.  And nobody, no person, broke Oliver's heart.  It was time and geography and circumstances that did that.  And himself- his own stupidity for letting himself get so involved, for letting himself fall so deeply and openly.

"I guess so."

"Oh, Oliver.  I know we messed each other up a few times, but despite everything, I would never have wanted you to get your heart broken.  I'm so sorry."

They watched TV and talked and it felt almost like old times.  Not the times when they were dating, but the times when they were friends. 

Since then, he's seen Emma every few days.  She doesn't ask him any more about Italy, but it's a comfort to know that if he wanted to tell, she would listen.  In theory, at least.  In practice, what he wants to talk about is Elio.  About his smile, and how he played piano, and the things he knew.  But he knows Emma well enough to know that he could never tell her that his heart is breaking because of a seventeen-year-old boy. 

 

The heat suddenly breaks on the last day of the month, as the remains of a tropical storm bring more rain in one day then in the whole of the rest of the month.  It's a relief to Oliver.  The heat dissipates, and it's as though the sheets of rain are washing some of the Elio out of the air.  Maybe things will be easier now.

They're not, of course.  He had hoped that the routine, and being back at home, and the changing season, all so different from his time in Italy, would make things easier to bear.  But if anything, it's more difficult now, because he can no longer tell himself _this will be easier when I get home, go back to work, when the summer's really over._ None of these have worked, and now he has no hope that there's a solution on the horizon.  Is he going to have to feel like this forever?

 

All of his friends have noticed that something's wrong, something's _still_ wrong, and they keep mentioning it, but still none of them push him to talk about it.  Oliver supposes that they assume he's just got the end-of-summer, back-to-reality blues, and that it's taking him a long time to get back to normal.  Which isn't entirely untrue.  They look after him, though.  Robert cooks meals for him, Emma takes him out for coffee, they all go out for drinks on Friday nights.

Dennis works in Oliver's faculty.  He and Oliver have certain shared interests outside of the workplace, things that they don't tell their other friends, and after a few drinks Dennis suggests they indulge one of these interests by going to a club.  "Oliver, I can see why you don't want to talk to anyone about this, but I know someone who's pining over a boy when I see him.  And the best way to get over that is to hook up with another boy.  Am I wrong?"

"No!  I mean- yes, maybe."

"Well, you never know.  It might work.  Anyway- you don't have to.  Just come to a club.  We can have a couple more drinks, maybe dance with some guys, see what happens?"

Maybe Dennis is right.  Maybe he has a point, and a night of anonymous sex is what Oliver needs right now.  Maybe it's time to forget.  Surely it couldn't make him any unhappier than he already is.

 

It's well past midnight when Oliver finds himself almost falling through the door to some guy's apartment.  He can't remember his name.  He looks nothing like Elio, which is probably a good thing, definitely a good thing.  They're kissing, wet and hungry and with the uncoordinated sloppiness of people who have had too much to drink.  The alcohol and kissing haven't made Oliver happy, as such, but the sadness is quieted and numb, which is an improvement.  And this guy is gorgeous.  His hands feel so good on Oliver's skin, and his mouth tastes of some overly sweet cocktail he was drinking back in the club.  The guy, whatever his name is, pulls back from kissing Oliver and looks at him.  "Oh my god, you're so hot.  C'mon, bedroom's this way."  Oliver nods, dropping his coat into the kitchen table, lets himself be taken by the hand.  

But it all goes wrong as soon as the bedroom door closes, and the guy- was his name Charlie?-  reaches for the buckle of Oliver's belt, and then for the button of his pants, and the zipper, and-

"Shit.  I can't do this."   Oliver steps back, breathing heavy and rapid with something other than lust, something more like panic.  "I'm sorry, I can't do this."

"Oh, fuck, man.  You're one of those?  You're gonna tell me now that you're not gay, that this is all some big mistake, right?  I know your type.  Don't fuck with me."

"No, I'm not, it's not like that.  It's just-"  Oliver isn't going to cry again, not here in some stranger's apartment.  He swallows around the lump in his throat.  "There's-"  He catches himself, about to say _someone else_.  But it wouldn't be true, not any more.  Or maybe _I just got out of a serious relationship_ , because that's a thing people say in situations like this, and it's not a lie, because nothing has ever been more serious for Oliver.  But at the same time it's not true, because they never called it that.  They never called it anything, really. 

There's nobody else.  Oliver is a single man, he can sleep with who he likes.  The problem is that he doesn't want to.  He's not with Elio, and he can't pretend that he is, not even to himself- but he doesn't want to be with anyone else. 

"Oh, no, don't start crying on me.  I didn't sign up for this.  Look, man, I don't know if it's some girlfriend you've got somewhere, or your family, or some Jesus shit, or something else you've got going on in your head, telling you you can't be into this, but if this isn't going to happen, you should probably go.  You've messed with me enough."

"Okay.  Look, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.  It's not what you think."

"Well, no, what I thought is that you wanted to come back here, and we could have some fun, and nobody would freak out.  But whatever.  Don't forget your coat."

Oliver drapes it around his shoulders on his way out of the door, and hears it slam behind him as he walks away.

* * *

A letter arrives in the second week of October.  Oliver doesn't recognise the precise, looping script at first, but it's from Annella.  A second, smaller, white envelope falls out when he unfolds the letter.  Oliver turns it over in his fingers and sees there's something written on the back.  _Read the letter before opening._

So he does.  The Perlmans are well, and they're back in the city.  The professor has gone back to work, Elio has gone back to school, Annella has been catching up with friends and doing a little translation work.  She hopes that Oliver's advisor is pleased with his work, and that he's enjoying his classes.  Has he thought any more about what his plans are for when he's finished his doctorate?  

But then- he can almost hear the hesitation in her writing.  _I've enclosed a photograph, because I didn't think you had any.  I just got my summer pictures developed, and I thought you might like this one.  I'm sorry if you think me presumptuous, and I know this sounds silly, but I put it in a separate envelope in case you don't want to see it.  It's you and Elio, sitting by the pool.  If you don't want it, you can just throw it away._

Oliver's head is spinning and his breathing is shallow.  He tells himself that it's just a photograph.  It can't hurt him.  But at the same time, he can't think of anything that would hurt more than seeing Elio and himself.  The one things he wants, the one thing he cannot have.  But he can't _not_ look at it, so he opens the envelope and carefully pulls the photograph out, holding it by its edges.  He has no idea how Annella managed to take this photograph without being noticed.  They're sitting on the corner of the pool, shirts open and feet in the water.  The angle of the shot and their reflections in the water make it impossible to see, but Oliver knows their feet are tangled together.  Oliver has a shirt on to cover up the bruise on his shoulder from where Elio bit him a night or two before, leaving a mark that's now long gone.  And Elio's wearing Oliver's shirt.  Oliver remembers that this was the first time he wore it.  When Oliver had seen him, small and slender, with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, he'd been at a loss for words.

It's a quiet moment, simple and innocent.  Oliver reaches out and his finger hovers a fraction of an inch away from Elio's face, tracing over it in his mind, remembering the feel of Elio's skin beneath his fingers.

He puts the photograph carefully back in the envelope and, after reading the rest of the letter, puts that back in its envelope too.  He places them both in a folder on his desk, the folder where he keeps the correspondence between himself and the professor from before he went to Italy.

Annella's words linger in his head.  _Please do call soon.  It would be lovely to speak to you._ Maybe he will.  But not quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out September 1983 in New York was a scorcher. Who knew?  
> So... I know this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it's not. I had a sudden epiphany and it made sense to split it. So. There's more. Or at least there will be, before too long.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


	8. Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem isn't the way he misses Elio, constantly, with a deep, aching sadness. It's not the feeling of desperate unhappiness that clings to him like a dark cloud.  
> It's the hope that's slowly killing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting notes at the start of the chapter this time because when it ends it ends and I didn't want anything after that. 
> 
> So this is it! At least, this is how I meant it to end. But then bits of an epilogue started floating around in my head, and now I'm not so sure it's the end after all. Do you want to see what they're up to in the present day (or thereabouts?), or is it best left like this? I'm not sure...
> 
> I took some liberties with my interpretation of the phone call- in the book there's evidence that they speak not only when Oliver first gets home from Italy, but during the following months too. But in the film I always get the feeling, from the way Elio says 'they know about us', that they haven't spoken since Oliver left.
> 
> If you want to see a different (but still suffering) Oliver, I have another fic started called These Parallel Lives. Though it probably won't be updated for a while due to work commitments between now and the middle of July. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading/commenting (you guys are the best!)/joining me on this wild ride of melodrama and misery and overuse of commas. There are quite a few bits of this chapter I actually sort of like, so let me know what you think!
> 
> EDITED 11/8/18- If you're interested, then when you've finished this you can find the epilogue [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403089) It's posted as a separate work because I don't want it to be another chapter of this. It's part of it but also a separate thing (I'm aware that probably only makes sense to me!). Go check it out some time!

"You're beautiful, you know that?"  It's just a whisper.

"Hmm?"  Oliver's barely awake, his brain thoroughly sleep-fogged.

"You're beautiful.  I could look at you all day long."  Oliver blinks his eyes open to see that Elio is, indeed, staring at him at this very moment.

Oliver's almost awake, now.  He yawns, "I don't think so, Elio."

"Well, you're wrong.  You are."

Oliver reaches for Elio's hand, and tangles their fingers together.  "No.  And before you say it, I'm not just being modest.  I'm good looking, I know that.  But beautiful?  I don't think so."

"Why not?  You said it about me."  Oliver has said it, many times- and he meant it, because it's true. 

"I did. And you are.  But I'll have to leave being beautiful to you, because you're..."  Oliver can't think of how to explain it. 

"Skinny?  Delicate?  Pretty?"  A flash of something crosses Elio's features, something Oliver can't quite make out.  "Because I look like a girl, and you don't?"

"No!  No, I don't think that."  He knows Elio so well that sometimes he forgets how _little_ he knows him, too.  Sometimes unexpected insecurities seem to come out of nowhere.  "I mean- you are pretty, and you're skinny, and you're delicate- at least, you look delicate, a little bit, despite the fact that really you're pretty tough.  But you don't look like a girl.  I'm not-" Oliver puts his free hand on Elio's waist, and sighs.  "I'm not- I don't want you like this because you look like a girl, or because you remind me of a girl."

Elio nods, placated.  "So why?  Why me and not you?"

"Because," Oliver pauses to kiss him, "because it's something else.  Something you are, that I'm not.  I don't know what it is, don't have a word for it."  He can't explain it, but he thinks it's something to do with Elio's honesty, his ability to be himself without hiding, his willingness to give everything of himself, freely and completely.

Elio kisses him, now.  Slowly and gently.  "I know what you mean.  I don't know what it's called either.  But I know, because you have it.  You're so beautiful, Oliver, you really are."  Elio's fingers cup the back of his head, tangle in his hair, he-

The sound of Oliver's alarm wrenches him uncomfortably from where he was contentedly drifting in a sea of dream-memories.   This one was particularly vivid, a word-for-word remembrance of a day almost two months ago.  Immediately Oliver knows that this is going to be one of his bad days, another day where the world will be blurred and his eyes dry and stinging with the weight of unshed tears. 

He's become ridiculous.

The clarity of the dream - Elio's voice still ringing in his ears and Elio's fingers in his hair and Elio's lips on his own- means that no length of time in the shower will wash him away.  He should really go for a run, because he's fallen out of the habit of doing that since his return from Italy.  First he was too tired to get up early, then he was too busy, and now he's just completely lacking in motivation.  Not that he's particularly out of shape, because he doesn't have much appetite lately.  He should definitely shave, because what he has going on at the moment is less _a beard_ and more _the unplanned chaos of the face of a man who lives alone in a cave_.  A cave without water or a razor. 

But honestly?  He doesn't care. 

He's been finding things more and more difficult lately.

 

He grabs a cup of takeout coffee on his way to his office.  The girl in the coffee shop knows his order but doesn't flirt with him any more.  Has she decided it's futile, or just realised that Oliver isn't as attractive as she thought he was when she gave him her number last month?

He doesn't care. 

He has a class first thing in the morning, followed by a faculty meeting.  It's at the end of the meeting that the dean, Dr Robinson, asks to speak to him.  "Now, Oliver, if you have a moment?  Let’s go to my office, please."  So Oliver does.

 

"Sit down, sit down.  I have something for you."  The dean sits down himself and looks something up in a book in his desk drawer.  He scribbles a number on a scrap of paper, and pushes it across his desk towards Oliver. "What's this for?" Oliver reaches for the paper.

"A therapist."  Oliver's fingers, just brushing the paper, snatch back as though burned. "I hear he's very good. I think you should call, set something up."  He must see Oliver’s wide-eyed expression, because he continues.  "Don't worry about the fees, it's-"

"I'm not crazy."

Dean Robinson sighs, raises both hands as though in supplication. "I know you're not crazy. Nobody's saying you're crazy, Oliver.  He's not a doctor, it's just someone to talk to, and-"

"Somebody is obviously saying I'm crazy.  I don't need to see a therapist."

"Oliver. It's not like that. That's not what I'm saying, it's not what people think.  A lot of people see therapists.  You certainly wouldn't be the only one in the faculty.  This is a pressured environment, and you've had a lot going on lately, with your book and your new classes and finishing your doctorate and thinking about what to do when it's done.  It's understandable that you might need someone to talk to.  There are people here who you can always discuss things with, myself included.  But sometimes it's better to speak with someone impartial, someone you don't know."

"I'm fine. Those things are all fine. You know they are. My thesis is fine, you've seen it yourself. I-"

"Oliver. I know.  I'm not disputing the quality of your work.  But despite all that, we both know there's something not right. If anything, you seem to be throwing yourself into your work too much, and though you're trying to avoid something else.  It's okay if it's personal, if it's girl trouble or family trouble or whatever, but whatever it is you're not yourself, not happy, and it's becoming a concern."

That's true. Of course Oliver's not himself. He left himself in Italy, but he can't tell the dean that. Maybe he _is_ crazy after all. Maybe it's crazy to feel this way.

Dr Robinson sighs again.  "I can't force you to make that call. But something has to give, Oliver. You can't go on like this.". He straightens up in his chair and clasps his hand together, businesslike. "You're going to take a leave of absence.  Two weeks."  Oliver makes to interrupt, but, "no, hear me out.  Two weeks, and that's an order. I'm not asking if you want to.  I'm telling you.  I will make arrangements for your classes to be covered.  Get some rest, and think, and maybe call this guy, and eat some proper meals, and come back here, first thing Monday morning, in two weeks.  We'll talk. Now go.  I'd better not hear you've been on campus until then.  Go get your things from your office and go home."

Oliver stands to leave.

"Don't forget that.". Dr Robinson gestures to the scrap of paper still sitting on his desk, and Oliver takes it and stuffs it into his pants pocket before turning to the door.

"Oh, and Oliver?  You're much too young to pull off the mad-professor look.  Shave that mess off your face.  And get yourself a haircut."

***

Oliver leaves campus in the daze.  He knew that things were bad inside his own head, but had no idea that it was noticeable to other people.  He definitely didn't know things looked bad enough for the dean to get involved, for him to suggest... this.  How hasn't Oliver noticed this?  How did he let things get so out of control?

He goes back to his apartment and wishes he could talk to Elio.  He could call, right now.  Elio should be home from school, and they could talk, or he could just listen to the sound of Elio's voice, or even just listen to him breathe at the other end of the line.  God, he misses Elio.  Misses his smile, the smell of him, the feel of his skin, warm under Oliver's fingers.  More than anything else, he misses just talking to him, being with him.  He thought that not speaking to him was the right thing to do, and that the longing might be over by now, or at least lessened.  But he’s still waiting for things to become more bearable.  He wonders how long it will go on, how much longer he can live with it.  If there’s a way for him to make it go away.  He has no intention of calling a therapist, but he idly wonders whether talking to someone could be any help.  Probably not- because what could possibly help with this?  They say that time heals all wounds, but two months has done nothing to heal the gaping hole left by Elio's absence.  And Oliver can't afford to wait any longer.  He has to sort himself out in the next two weeks.

But for now he slumps down onto the sofa, switches on the TV and lets the terrible daytime programmes numb his mind.

 

Oliver is pulled from his reverie hours later by a banging on the door.  Robert’s not home yet, but of course he has a key, so it's not him.  It’s Emma, a bag of takeout food in one hand and a bottle of wine in another.

“I knew I’d find you here.  I called in to your office this afternoon, to see if you had some time to spare for coffee, but you weren’t there and I heard you’re taking a leave of absence.  Whatever that means.  I figured you might need some company.”

Oliver steps aside from the door and she busies herself finding plates and forks and glasses, moving around the kitchen as though she belongs there.  As they eat, Oliver doesn’t say much, but he knows she’s going to want him to talk, to get to the bottom of what’s bothering him.  It’s just a matter of when she makes her move. 

And it happens after dinner, when Oliver's standing by the window, lost in his own thoughts.  "Oliver.  You're doing that thing again.  Zoning out.  Did you even hear what I just said?"

"Sorry.  No.  what did you say?"

"I was asking you whether you're planning on going to the party at Jessica's apartment tomorrow night."

He doesn’t even look at her as he says, "I don't know, Em.  I'm pretty tired.  I think I’ll give it a miss.  It’s been a tough few days."

Emma knows exactly what he's talking about.  "I know that.  I do.  But... we're not talking about your work, are we?  We both know this isn't about work, and... don't be mad at me, because I need to say this- you've been back for two months, and maybe you need to move on from what happened in Italy, Oliver.  From her, whoever she was.  It was two weeks of your life, Oliver.  _Two weeks_.  Have you stopped to think that maybe you're- I don't know... idealising it?  Romanticising it?  You're seeing it from a distance and everything looks so perfect, and I'm sure it was, at the time- sunshine and sex and no real life things to worry about.  Because you never got a chance to annoy each other, or fight, or get bored.  You never had to work at the relationship.  Don't you think that, maybe, that's the reason why it was so amazing?  Why it still bothers you so much?  Because it was easy, and perfect, and since it was never going to be anything more, there was no pressure.  I know it was real at the time, but maybe in the end it was just a summer romance.  Maybe it never could have been anything more.  But now?  This is real life, _your_ real life, and relationships- real, lasting relationships- are hard, Oliver.  We both know that."

Oliver doesn't know what to think.  He thinks she's wrong.  He can't bring himself to believe that Elio is nothing more than an idealised summer love.  The length of time they spent together, or lack of it, means nothing.

But at the same time he can't deny that some of the things she said are true.

"You need to get it clear in your own head.  Is it really over with her?  Is there any chance you're going to run off to Italy and marry her?  Is she going to fly over here and turn up outside your apartment?"

Now that’s something Oliver can answer, honestly and accurately.  "No, it's over.  It's definitely over.  We haven't spoken since I got back, we haven't written love letters, none of that."  The words hurt, because all of them are true.  Oliver continues gazing out of the window.  "Look.  It's over.  Can we not talk about this?"

"I think you need to talk about it.  Was she pretty?"  Oliver turns to look at Emma, as she sips on her wine. 

"What?"

"You heard me, Oliver.  You know what I mean."

Oliver can feel the anger building in him, the frustration at the fact that she won't leave this alone.

"Yes.  Is that what you want to hear?  What you want to know?  Beautiful, actually.  And interesting, and intelligent.  I've never met anyone so fascinating.  And we fucked every night until I thought I'd lose my mind."

Emma's eyes are starting to swim with tears, but he finds he doesn't much care. 

"After everything we've been through, Oliver, I don't want to hear this."

"Then don't _fucking_ ask."

Oliver's wine glass shatters as it hits the wall.  He's not an aggressive man- he's notoriously mild-mannered, in fact, but _god_. 

Emma picks up her coat and purse and leaves without looking back at him.  Glass crunches under her shoes.  Wine trickles down the wall. 

Oliver lights a cigarette and returns to gazing out of the window, looking, again, for the stars he can never see here in the city.

 

Oliver stays up late that night, sitting on the balcony chain smoking while he processes all the reasons why he and Elio could never be together.

He has nothing to offer Elio.  He doesn't have big houses full of books- right now he scarcely has enough money to make ends meet.  He certainly couldn't afford to fly over and visit Italy during every holiday.  He doesn't have a distinguished, well-paying career- and if he was with Elio, openly, if people knew he was in a relationship with a seventeen year old boy, he probably wouldn't have a career at all.  It wouldn't be a scandal, as such- Oliver knows there are gay professors, plenty of them.  But it's something they keep quiet about, and to have a partner as young as Elio would be a step too far for many people.

It goes without saying that he wouldn't have the support of his family.  They love him, even though they don't understand him.  But this would not be acceptable to them.

Oliver doesn't want to have to hide who he is.  It's better to just be someone different.

Oliver knows that Elio would say _I don't need any of those things._   _All I need is you_ \- because that's how people in love think.  But he'd be wrong, and he's too young and inexperienced to know better.  Elio has never experienced life without those things, and Oliver doesn’t want him to. 

Elio has a choice.  Right now he loves Oliver, but he likes girls too.  He will get over Oliver and fall in love with someone else, and it will probably be a woman, and they will be able to do and have all the things Oliver cannot offer. 

Oliver can't choose how he feels, but he can choose who he decides to be with.  People see things in black and white.  Straight or gay.  If he chooses to be with a woman, he's straight.  If he chooses to be with a man, he's gay.  Nobody will look beyond that, to think _maybe he likes both?_ Because why would they?  Does it matter, once you've made your choice?  And given that he has, and Elio has, a degree of choice, who in their right mind would choose to be a gay man? 

To condemn himself to a life of hiding.  To never marrying, never having children.  To constantly worry about being seen by the wrong people, people who would hurt them for loving one another.  To people, so many narrow-minded people, assuming that you're promiscuous, and predatory, and that you can't really be in love or have a 'proper' relationship.  To people assuming that your relationship isn't serious and doesn't really matter. 

Oliver doesn't want people to see him like that, and doesn't want Elio to be seen like that either.

He has nothing to offer Elio.  Society has nothing to offer them, two men who are in love and want to be together.  There's nothing Oliver can do to change that.

So he'll just have to change himself, instead- want the things he's supposed to want, and do the things he's supposed to do.  How difficult can it be?

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, the apartment is quiet, with no noise other than the hum of the fridge and the muffled sounds of the city outside.  Robert won't be back until the evening.  Oliver gives himself the day, this one day, to fix himself.  Because something does have to give.  Oliver has wallowed for far too long in this misery he can do nothing about.  In the cold light of day he suddenly knows exactly what the problem is.  He doesn't need a therapist to tell him.  The problem isn't the way he misses Elio, constantly, with a deep, aching sadness.  It's not the feeling of desperate unhappiness that clings to him like a dark cloud. 

It's the hope that's slowly killing him.

Hope is supposed to be a good thing, but it's really not.  The hope is stopping him from moving on.  And realistically- he has to move on.  Because there's no way not to.  He knows that hoping for Elio is a case of hoping for something impossible, but he can't quite let it go.

What he wants is Elio.  Elio and Oliver, the two of them, together. 

This is not a thing he can have. 

What he wants is to go back in time, and live in the summer, in Italy, with Elio, forever.

This, too, is not a thing he can have. 

That's not what real life is like.

It's not a question of finding a way, because there isn't a way.  They both knew it from the start, that their days were numbered before they even began.  It was so sweet and so precious. 

But could he and Elio really have been happy together, in the long term?  Oliver can’t deny that he’s thought, sometimes, that what they had was too intense, that their connection ran too deep.  They would have been too much for one another, and burned each other out.  Maybe.

Oliver is trapped in a cycle.  As long as he keeps racking his brains for ways of making this work, ways to somehow be with Elio, he can't move on.  And at the same time he doesn't _want_ to move on, because he's hoping that he won't have to move on because he'll work this out.  His head hurts just thinking about it.  This cycle has to be broken.  By acknowledging that he can't fix this, he can kill off the hope that eats away at him day by day.  And when that's gone, he will have no choice but to move on. 

Hopefully, just acknowledging the problem will be a good start.

 

While he's getting to grips with that, there are other things he can do.  First he finds his running shoes, left untouched in the bottom of his closet since before the summer.

Run, shave, shower.  Then he goes out to buy groceries- since when have the cupboards been so empty?- and calls in at the barber's while he's out.  By the time Robert gets home, Oliver has cooked dinner.

"Oliver?  You look… wow.  This is... unexpected."

"I know."  He scrubs his hand anxiously through his hair.  He doesn't want to talk about it, but he’s going to have to say something.  "Well, things have been weird ever since I got back from Italy, and apparently dean Robinson had noticed, so I'm taking a week or two off work.  I figured I needed to get myself together.  So... yeah."

"Well, everyone was kind of worried about you.  But you do look better already.  Honestly, man, that beard was awful.  It was so bad.  Not going to work suits you."

"Yeah.  I probably just needed a kick up the ass."

"You want to talk about what was wrong?"  Robert’s tone tells Oliver that he’s just being polite.  He doesn’t really want to talk about this, and won’t be offended in the slightest if Oliver says no, which suits Oliver just fine.

"No, not really.  I'm done with it, so there's no need.  I've sorted it out.  Now c'mon, dinner's getting cold."

 

After dinner Oliver goes out.  He appears at Emma's apartment, flowers in his hand and his most contrite expression fixed on his face. 

She glares at him for a moment, but nevertheless invites him in and he talks while she fusses around, putting the flowers into water.  She doesn't stay mad at him for long, because he's Oliver and he's gorgeous and charming; not to mention the fact that he's genuinely very sorry for the way that he behaved and she knows it. 

"I was out of order, Em, and I know it.  I'm so sorry.  I was just... I don't even know what came over me."

"I'm sorry, too.  I shouldn't have pushed you.  It's really none of my business."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean what I did was okay.  I need to work some things out, and I will.  I've just been putting it off.  It's hard, you know?”  He pauses, weighing his next words before he speaks.  “We're friends, right?"

"Of course.  Always.  I’m so sorry you’re unhappy."  She takes him in her arms and holds him, silently, until he breaks the embrace and suggests they go out for a drink.

 

Oliver thinks about calling that number.  He does.  It would be good to be able to talk to someone, just one single person, about what’s happened.  But therapy is not a thing normal people like him do, and besides- it’s pointless now that he's worked out for himself what needs to happen.

 

Oliver tells himself that by the end of this two weeks, he will be back to normal again.  He runs every morning, farther and faster each time, and on the mornings when he wakes from dreams of Elio he adds an extra mile to his route, punishing his body for the weakness of his sleeping mind.  He tidies the apartment.  He sorts through all his papers, something he's been meaning to do forever.  A lot of old course notes can be thrown away, and the rest can go to his office on campus.  He puts _Armance_ , and the film canister, and his letters from the Perlmans in the box to go to his office. 

His thoughts are a little quieter every day.  At least it seems that way, but really his determination has just made him better at pretending they’re not there. In the space of just a few days he's got a lot better at keeping everything _Elio_ pushed deep down inside himself, where it can’t find him and can’t hurt him and can’t bubble over into the reality of his life.

 He makes arrangements to see friends.  He hadn’t been ignoring them, as such- he just hadn’t been very proactive about spending time with them.  But they’re pleased to see him.  They say that they’re pleased to see that he’s back to normal. 

 Is he back to normal?  Oliver has no idea.

A group of them are going out for dinner on the Saturday night before Oliver returns to work.  They're meeting at his apartment for drinks beforehand, and Emma arrives just when everyone has ganged up on him to make fun of his shirt.

"Please tell me you're not wearing that shirt, Oliver?  It's awful.  Oh look, Emma's here, Em, tell him it's awful."

Oliver defends himself half-heartedly.  "C'mon, it's not that bad." 

"It _is_ that bad," says Emma.

Oliver laughs.  "Fine!  You know where the closet is- go find me something better."

He follows her to his bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed while she starts looking through his at shirts.  "Where's that blue one?  The light blue?  It would look great with your tan."

 Oliver swallows around the lump in his throat. "I have no idea."  It's almost true, because Oliver has no way of knowing where the shirt is.  Did Elio leave it at the villa?  Did he take it with him back to the city?  Did he throw it away already?  Does he wear it to bed?  Maybe he’s half-forgotten about Oliver by now, and shoved the shirt out of the way in the back of his closet?  Oliver takes a deep breath to help him focus on the here and now.

"Oh, god, Oliver, you need to get rid of some of this stuff.  Look at this one!  How long have you had this t-shirt?  It can't even have fitted you for, what, ten years?  You're never going to fit into this again, you know that?  Just throw it out."

No.  No, it wouldn't have fitted Oliver for many years.  But Oliver has never worn it, not once, because it's never been his.  Oliver doesn't know what to say.  He knows he looks like a rabbit in the headlights.  He can't think of what to say, how to explain this away, how to explain that this shirt is not going to be thrown away, that she should get her hands off it.  In the end, anger does the thinking for him.

He snatches the shirt for her hands.  "For god's sake, Em, won't you just leave it alone?  Leave my stuff alone!  If I want to clear out my closet, I'll do it myself.  Just- just leave it!  I'm sick of you meddling with my stuff, with my life."  He balls the shirt up and throws it back into the closet before slamming the door.  A deep breath.  "I'm just going to wear the shirt I already have on, and if people don't like it, I really don't care."

Instead of being mad about his outburst, she looks sympathetic.  "I'm sorry.  You asked me to find you a different shirt, I didn't mean to-  I'm sorry."  A pause.  "Are you okay?"

Oliver is practised at this.  He’s back in the habit of being okay, and an excuse for his reaction, for this momentary slip, is quick to form in his head.  "I'm fine.  Sorry, Em.  I just- I've been trying to sort through my stuff all week, and I'm getting pretty sick of it all.  I’ve had the worst headache all day.  Plus I'm starting to go crazy, stuck at home.  I can’t wait to get back to work."

"Oh, I get that.  And the place is looking much tidier."  She looks around the room approvingly, at the desk conspicuously clear of its usual messy stacks of papers.  "You've done a great job, really.  You'll feel better once you get back to work.  Now come on.  Be a good host and get me something to drink."

* * *

Dean Robinson is pleased to see him on the morning when he returns to work.  "Oliver!  You look much better.  How are you?"

"I'm good.  Thank you."

"Ready to get back to work?"

"Definitely."

"Good.  Anything you want to talk about?"

"No, thank you.  I'm fine."

"Well, my door is always open.  You have the makings of a good professor, and we're here to support you.  It's good to have you back."

Oliver goes to his office and puts the box of papers he brought from the apartment on his desk.  He leaves most of them to be unpacked later, but he takes the Elio things out.  He puts Armance, with the photograph of the two of them inside, on the bookshelf by his desk, where he can see it while he works.  He puts the canister containing the lock of hair into the top drawer of his desk, along with paper clips and pens and other bits and pieces.  Elio has been tidied away, in his head and his heart as well as in his office.  Tidy, but he's still there.  Everywhere.  You just have to know where to look.

 

October becomes November, and Oliver knows he looks and seems better now.  People have noticed the improvement.  _You seem much better.  You seem more like yourself.  You seem happier_.  These people know nothing about him- and he can't blame them, because he's spent his whole life determined to hide.  But there's a part of him now that wants to be known, and he doesn’t quite know what to do about that.

 

He calls Annella.  He’s been putting it off for far too long, and he does want to speak to her.  It’s a Wednesday morning for him, just after lunch in Italy, and he’s chosen the time deliberately because he knows that Elio will be at school. 

Annella is happy to hear from him, and they exchange pleasantries for a few minutes.  During a lull in the conversation Oliver decides he has to ask, though he knows his voice trembles a little with uncertainty.  “And- and how is Elio?”

“Oh, Elio is… Elio’s fine.  He’s… taller, actually, for one thing.  He’s shot up since you left, at least an inch.  So, there’s that.  School is keeping him busy, and his music lessons, of course.  Lots of practising and studying, as you’d expect really.”

A pause, and Oliver hears her light a cigarette.  She continues, quiet and gentle as though Oliver is a nervous animal liable to spook at any moment.

“Oliver.  Are you sure you won’t talk to him?  The way you sound, and speak, is the same as the way he behaves.  Quieter.  Sadder.  Somehow, something… less, than before.”

 _I’m sorry I broke your son_ , he thinks.

It’s as though Annella heard it, because she goes on, “I’m not criticising, Oliver, not at all!  I just think it might be good for both of you to talk.  That’s all.  Won’t you think about it?”

_I don’t think I can.  I don’t think I could bear it._

“I’ll think about it,“ is what he says, because that’s what she doubtless wants to hear, and Oliver is good at giving people what they want.

 

He's seen Emma once or twice a week since the beginning of September, and by November he sees her most days.  The meet for coffee, they go to the movies, they hang out in his apartment, or hers, or with other friends.  So the question she asks one evening, in mid-November, probably shouldn't come as a surprise.  They'ver rented a movie, sometime laughably terrible and instantly forgettable, and she's sitting sideways on the couch with her legs draped over his.  As the credits roll, Oliver leans over and picks up a bottle of wine from the coffee table.  "Another glass?"

She doesn't answer.  "What, Em?  You're looking at me all weird."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Oliver.  Are we dating?"

"What?  No- I don't think so.  I mean- we're not sleeping together, and I kind of remember that's something we did all those times we were dating."  He smiles, wryly.  Where did this suddenly come from?

"Okay.  It's just... we spend most of our free time together.  We do all the things we did when we were a couple, apart from having sex.  And it's good, right?"

"Yeah, it's really good.  But maybe that's because we're not having sex.  Maybe we're better just as friends."  

"Do you really think that's true?  I know we said we were done with this, with us as a couple.  But we've said that so many times before, and always drifted back together.  I wanted to spend time with you because we're friends, and you were hurting, and I didn't plan on it being anything more.  But being with you these past few weeks, spending so much time together?  It's been so good, we both know it has.  I know you're struggling, a little, still getting over things, but maybe you should have a go at moving on?"

"You're saying you want to be with me to help me move on from Italy?  You don't want to be my rebound, Em."

"Is that what it would be, though?  We've done this so many times.  We _know_ each other.  Maybe we should give it a try?  I miss you.  I miss being with you."

"That's the thing, though.  If we got back together it would be serious.  Right from the start.  There's no way for it not to be, I don't think." 

"Is that a bad thing?  Oliver- I'm twenty-four.  I'm looking for something serious, and I think you are too.  It wouldn't be a rebound because we wouldn't be starting a relationship, it would be continuing where we left off a few months ago.  We're basically a couple already, we're just not calling it that.  Think about it- if you were dating someone else, would it be okay for us to hang out together so much?  To sit here like this, like we do?  Do you do this with any of your other friends, any of your guy friends?"

 _Oh, Emma.  How little you know._   "I don't know about this.  I need some time to think about it."

"Okay.  How about this?  Friday night, we'll go out for dinner.  Maybe see a movie.  And maybe it'll be a date, or maybe it won't.  We can decide as we go.  No pressure.  Have a think.  I'll leave you alone until then, give you some space."

"Okay.  I think I can do that."  Maybe he can.  Maybe he should give this a try.

 

Oliver keeps his alarm on even at the weekend, because he's back in the routine of running every morning.  On Saturday he reaches to switch off the alarm, and there's Emma, next to him in bed.  "Good morning, handsome."

"Oh.  Hi."

She smiles.  “Last night was good.  I'm glad we decided to do this.  I love you, Oliver.”

“I love you too.”  Thoughtless, the words spill from his lips.  Why do those words come so easily now?  They’re true, without a doubt, but somehow they mean so little.

And just like that, they're a couple again.

* * *

Oliver's life feels normal, at last.  He's finding it easier than ever to be the person everyone expects him to be.  Dating Emma is just the same as it always was.  Better, in fact, because they've both grown up a bit more now and things aren't as volatile as they used to be.  It's as if they're on the same page in a way they never were before.

They stay with Oliver's parents for Thanksgiving.  His mom pulls him aside to say how much better he seems, and how happy she is to see him back together with Emma.  They have a nice weekend.  Things feel normal.

Some days, it feels as though Oliver never went to Italy at all.

But some cracks can never be fully repaired, and every so often, Elio seeps through.  Those days are still difficult, but Oliver can cope better now. 

Then it's December.  As winter approaches, Oliver's still alright.  More or less.  He thought he'd exorcised the little hopeful voices, but he hasn't, not completely.  They're quieter though, and they make themselves known less often, which makes it much easier for Oliver's mask to stay back in place. 

It's simple, really, like slipping into a comfortable old sweater.  It's not a sweater he particularly likes- in fact he's pretty indifferent towards it.  But it's something he's worn for his whole life.  Pretending to be confident, pretending to fit in, pretending not to care too much.  And yes, it was difficult for a while, but now he's almost convinced himself that he has no choice but to get over Elio, so it's best just to make himself feel nothing.  This fits in nicely with the persona he's always adopted, because nobody in his life really wants him to feel much of anything.

But however he tries to get rid of it, however much he pushes it down, the hope bubbles to the surface, and he can't quite get rid of it.  He has to do something decisive, to kill it once and for all.

"Em?  You know what?  We should get married."

 

He might as well marry her now- there’s no reason to wait.  There’s a feeling of inevitability to it.  Well, putting it in those terms isn’t fair- to himself or to Emma.  It's not what he means.  They're good together, and he loves her, and he knows they can build a happy life together.  They’ve been happy together, most of the time, for almost two years. 

It’s a good idea, one that will make a lot of people happy, including himself, he hopes.  He’d always held something of himself back, all those other times when they were together, and both he and Emma knew it.  But now?  He's given that part of himself, freely, to Elio, to keep.  Emma can have all of him, everything he has left.

Maybe they could have a baby.  He'd like that.  His mom would be overjoyed.

And it might as well be soon.  Before he finds a reason to go back to Italy.  Before he decides he simply can't exist without Elio.

 

"What?"

"We should get married.  I know we’ve sort of only been together for a few weeks, but really it’s been years, Em.  And you want all that, right?  Marriage, kids...?"

She nods.  “You know I do.  We’ve talked about this before.”

"Me too.”

“What changed your mind?  Why now?  I mean, I knew you wanted those things someday but you were never ready to make a commitment before.”  She looks at him quizzically.

“I don’t know.  I’ve grown up?  It feels like the right time to do this.”  It's not exactly the proposal he might have planned, if he'd given himself time to think this through.  But it does feel right.

“Yes.  Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”  She smiles at him, and he leans down to kiss her.

 

They go shopping for a ring, together, and announce their engagement during Hannukah.  There’s talk of a spring wedding.  His parents are thrilled.  Her parents are thrilled.  Oliver is supposed to be thrilled.  He’s made his decision, and he’s supposed to have stopped feeling what he feels for Elio, but it hasn’t worked.  Not yet, at least.  Why are things never so simple?

* * *

A few days after the announcement Oliver wakes early, alone.  The sky is clear and it's going to be a cold, crisp day.  He and Emma are expected at her parents’ house for dinner, but he has most of the day to himself.  He’s going to make that phone call today, because he has to do it before he can lay this to rest for good.  It would already be lunch time in Italy- he could call right now.  But he’s not quite ready.  The stars are fading from the sky as he picks up a pen and begins to write the words he’ll never be able to say out loud.

_Elio_

_I can’t stop thinking about you.  I’ve tried, I really have, but nothing helps._

_I dream about you.  I see you and I hear you and sometimes I wonder if you’re the only thing that’s real._

_I’m so in love with you.  I wish I’d told you that when I had the chance.  I’m not going to tell you today, because it would be cruel to say it, knowing that nothing can ever come of it._

_I have to tell you something.  I’m trying to tell myself that you won’t mind, that you’ve probably moved on already.  But I know you too well and I know that that’s not true._

_I’m going to tell you something that I know will hurt you.  Break you.  I know this because it breaks me, and you and I are one and the same.  But we can’t,_ I _can’t, go on like this- and sometimes the cracks just can’t be repaired.  Some things have to be broken apart so that they can be rebuilt from the wreckage.  I don’t think there’s any other way to fix this.  For us to fix ourselves and each other._

_I don’t think I’ll ever be fixed, not really, but I know that I can make something good out of my life.  And I hope that this will help you- that you can get over us and build your own happiness._

_You deserve everything life has to offer.  Not just love, but companionship and security and contentment.  These sound like such small, mundane things, but it’s important not to underestimate the importance of the small things when blinded by something as bright as the thing that you and I had together.._

_You are the life I need, but you’re not the life I can have.  That’s not something we ever could have been to each other, and we both knew it.  I don’t want you to have only the life that I can offer you (which really wouldn’t amount to much), nor do I want you to miss out on all the things you could have._

_This sounds very selfless of me, as though I’m only thinking of what’s best for you- but it’s actually quite the opposite.  I think I’m doing this entirely for myself.  I want all the best things for you, but isn’t that a selfish desire in itself?  To assuage the guilt I’d feel for causing you to have anything less than the world.  The guilt I’d feel for condemning you to a life of hiding and shame and never being able to love openly and freely._

_I’m selfish because a part of me wants things I can’t have with you.  I want a marriage- a relationship I can stand up and affirm in front of my family and friends and be proud of.  I want children.  Maybe not yet, but sometime in my future.  I want to be able to continue my career, doing the things I love.  I want to be accepted._

_And, perhaps worst of all, I’m selfish because I’m doing this to free myself of the hope that I can somehow be with you again.  I’m not strong enough to live with it any longer._

_You always were the better person of the two of us._

_For you in silence,_

_and with love,_

_Oliver_

 

It’s done. All of his thoughts condensed into a few hundred words, ink on paper.  This has to be the end.  Elio won’t be gone, perhaps not ever, but he has to keep Elio buried, and build his own life, alone.

Years later he will wonder, sometimes, if time and life and responsibility have chipped away at the piece of Elio he keeps inside himself.  He’ll wonders if he’s borrowed from it to fill the river of love he has for his sons, because that love, too, seems to defy description and have no end.  Sometimes when he can't get back to sleep in the soft light of dawn, he’ll take the piece of Elio out and examine it for cracks or chips or flaws.  But no.  He’ll find it still as whole as ever.  Whole, and beautiful, and unbreakable, with an ember burning white hot in its centre, waiting to be breathed back to life.

* * *

It’s almost lunch time when he finally finds the courage to burn the letter and pick up the phone.

Elio answers, and the sound of his voice after so many months takes Oliver’s breath away.  Oliver can see him, barefoot, swimsuit on, standing right there in the hallway.  He knows that’s not true, that it’s winter now, but he sees it all the same.

Elio, always an open book, gets straight to the point.  “I miss you.”

Oliver misses him too, so much it hurts, and he tries to voice his own feelings but suddenly he’s choking and the words he finds- the words he’s actually allowed to say- aren’t enough.  He wants to say _I love you, I always loved you, I’ve loved you my whole life._

And when it comes to Oliver’s news, Elio says the words before Oliver has to, voicing the worst case scenario for their _us_ and everything they are.  It’s as though Elio knows him better than he knows himself, which of course is true.  Elio was always the one with the courage to speak, and now he’s brave enough to say this thing that Oliver is too weak to vocalise.  “You’re getting married, I suppose.”

_This is over, I suppose._

_You’re calling to end this once and for all, I suppose._

Oliver still can’t find the strength to confirm it, to say _yes, that’s what’s going to happen_ , and instead he finds himself shrinking from reality with a _might_.  “I... might be getting married next spring.  Yeah.”

What a cop out. 

God, he hates himself sometimes.

 

Elio congratulates him, because of course he does, because that’s what people do when they hear such happy news.  But at the same time, Oliver knows Elio, knows him innately and intimately, and he hears Elio’s voice crack, just the smallest bit. 

He feels Elio’s heart break, four thousand miles and an ocean away, feels the shudder that runs through the earth.  Forests are set aflame, mountains fall, cities are razed to the ground.

Or maybe it was his own heart.

And when the politeness is out of the way, his own moment of weakness, his _might_ , unexpectedly gives him the strength to ask the question that suddenly might change everything. 

Maybe it’s true.  Maybe he might be getting married next spring.

Maybe he might not.  So.

“Do you mind?”

 _Please tell me you mind.  Fight for me, Elio_. He thought he was making this call just to tell Elio about his engagement, and it surprised to find that on a deeper level it’s so much more than that.  That he wants Elio to say _yes, I do mind.  No, it’s not okay, of course it’s not okay, how could you ever imagine that any part of this would be okay?_   To voice the words now playing in circles in his own head.  He wants him to be angry and say _how can you do this to me_?  Of course, what he’d really mean is _how can you do this to us_?  Because together they were, always, so much more than the sum of their parts.  He wants Elio to fly around the world with nothing but the clothes he’s standing up in and break down Oliver’s door.  To fight for him like nobody’s ever fought for Oliver before. 

Elio’s ragged breathing, fast and shallow in the silence, says more than his words ever could.  Oliver doesn’t need to see him to hear that he’s biting back tears.  It’s all Oliver needs in order to know his answer, but that’s not enough.  He needs to hear Elio say the words, and he’ll wait for as long as he has to.  He’ll stay on the line forever if that’s what it takes.

But he’s fated never to hear Elio’s answer, because Annella picks up the phone in another room and the moment is gone, lost amid congratulations for his engagement.  His engagement to a girl who deserves better, in order to forget a boy who also deserves better. 

Everyone deserves better than Oliver can give.

His lives, both the one he’s chosen and the one he wants to be able to choose, are crashing down around his ears.

 

When he talks to Elio alone again, he has to justify himself.  Has to give him a small idea of _why_ , of what Oliver’s life is like and why Elio shouldn’t want to be a part of it.  "You're so lucky.  My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility."   _My father_ is something Elio can understand, but really all this talk of _my father_ and _your father_ is merely a surrogate for _my world_ and _your world._   It’s an attempt to give Elio something that might help him make even a little sense of this.  He can’t imagine how different his and Oliver’s worlds are, but an understanding, tolerant father as opposed to one who is not those things is a much simpler concept.

Elio’s impatient with this.  He tuts as though to say _come on, Oliver, aren’t we past all this?  Surely we can do better than that?_ Oliver can picture him rolling his eyes.

 

And then he does something which almost stops Oliver’s heart.  It’s beautiful and perfect but there’s something so final about it.  As he breathes his own name, soft and familiar, Oliver remembers everything.  A summer flashes before his eyes. 

 _Elio._ A boy, smiling at Oliver over the breakfast table.

 

 _Elio_ , brother, on a bike, racing Oliver through the countryside.

 _Elio_ , friend, swimming in a lake, splashing in the twilight.

 _Elio_ , father, walking through town talking about everything and nothing.

 _Elio_ , son, young and carefree, running up a mountain in the rain.

 _Elio_ , husband, sleeping peacefully next to him as the dawn light filters through the window.

 _Elio_ , lover, pale and starlit, crying out, fingers grasping Oliver’s shoulders, beneath, above, inside him.

 _Elio_ , myself, a boy, small and fragile, standing on the platform of a station as a train pulls away.

 _Elio_.  I remember everything.

 

And in the end, because they both know, now, that this is the end- the only word left is his own name, for Elio.

 _Oliver_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [natures-cunning-ways](https://natures-cunning-ways.tumblr.com/).


End file.
